My Father Sold Me to a bunch of Crazy Alphas Chapter 94: A setup ( Killian’s POV )

"Are you ok?"

"You just said the only man who truly loved is dead. Not to ntion my flower—"

"Are you in pain?"

"No, but if stupidity were to be painful, you’d be screaming in agony."

His voice was just as cut-throat as it always was, but his eyes were unfocused. Teary. Lost.

He pushed aside to get a glass of water.

The tap leaking droplets was the only thing that broke the silence that pressed the air.

I couldn’t breathe.

I was aware that my lungs were filling themselves with enough air and yet, my vision got blurry. My knees weaken as I listen to Luther slowly choking between sips, trying not to crash down into what I can only imagine was agony.

But it’s good.

His suffering is good.

It leaves just enough space to squeeze in as a carnal comfort. As a replacent.

Although, my technique could improve.

I closed the distance between us and wrapped my hands around his stomach.

His skin, still warm and wet from the shower, vibrated from the muffled sobs into my palms. His flower was still a bit swollen from the effort last night. Half-blood with the opened petals slowly decaying, I could only imagine the aning behind it.

But that was neither important nor relevant to .

Alpha, beta, oga— Luther was mine.

I could hear his shallow breaths as he allowed to cling to his body. I don’t think he cared about my holding or my presence in the room whatsoever.

I couldn’t help but to envy Tom and their past. Maybe if I would have t Luther first, if I could have talked to him more before all of this went down—

Maybe he would have looked at . Truly.

Dare I imagine he would even love ?

That fantasy seems so far out of my reach, my poor heart can’t help but bleed.

"Luther."

"Shut up..."

He didn’t yell and yet he didn’t whisper either. I just echoed between the walls of the hotel like I could hear his thoughts out loud.

I tightened my grip. As if to keep him from lting down in my arms and escaping my hold.

"Did he die imdiately?"

"I-I don’t know..."

Luther broke free from my hug, mumbling "useless" under his breath.

"The funeral— When will he be buried?"

"I don’t know..."

"Then what the hell do you know?"

My phone rang.

My phone was on the counter, too far to grab casually, so I lunged for it, almost tripping over my own feet. My pulse spiked. Why now? Of all tis, why now?

F-ck, what if it’s Tom?

I snatched it up, grip too tight, fingers clumsy on the screen like I’d never held a phone before. I didn’t even check who was watching until I felt it—that weight, the stare.

I glanced sideways.

He saw that. He definitely saw that.

The phone kept buzzing in my hand, and every vibration felt like a countdown.

My thumb hovered over the answer button, sweating, slipping, because I knew what this call could do.

One word on the other end, and everything I’d been keeping together would snap wide open.

I didn’t look at him again.

Couldn’t.

His silence was louder than the ringtone. I could feel the question in it, the sharp edge of suspicion, but he didn’t say a word.

He didn’t have to. That single eyebrow said everything—Why are you panicking? Who’s calling you? And I hated that I didn’t have a good answer.

Not one that wouldn’t sound like a joke.

My breath ca shallow, quick, like I’d just run here instead of crossed the kitchen. I swiped to answer before I could think better of it, before the sound gave away even more.

My hand shook when I lifted it to my ear, and I cursed myself for that little tremor.

Stupid. So obvious.

Unknown number.

"Hello?"

"Where is Damian?"

"Excuse ?"

"This is Killian Akna, isn’t it?"

"Yes."

"Where is Damian?"

"How should I know?"

"Well, he is about to die because of you."

"Enjoy chopping!"

I hung up.

Luther raised a brow.

"What was that about?"

"A prank call probably."

"A prank call?"

"Yeah, they asked who I am and if I know where Damian is."

"Strange."

My phone rang another ti. Unknown number yet again.

"Hello?"

"If you don’t co to pick Damian up, this ti I’ll really end him."

"Look, buddy, you you think you’re funny or—"

"Killian?"

Damian’s voice echoed in the background of the caller.

My heart sank.

"Damian?"

"Killian, please, please help !"

My throat locked.

My grip on the phone was so tight it could’ve shattered.

I didn’t even respond.

Couldn’t.

My hand shook as I slamd the call down, the sound splitting the silence.

My heart thudded against my ribs so hard it hurt.

My tongue was dry, every breath short and sharp.

A ssage with the address arrived, confirming this is not just a nightmare.

I turned, and Luther was staring at .

Arms still crossed, one brow raised like before, but this ti there was sothing harder in his eyes.

Curiosity mixed with sothing that slled a lot like suspicion.

He didn’t ask. Not yet.

But he didn’t need to.

His jaw was tight, his posture rigid—he was reading , like he always does.

"Stay here," I said, my voice coming out rough.

Command, not suggestion.

His head tilted.

"No—"

"Don’t."

I didn’t let him finish.

I grabbed my jacket off the chair, my fingers trembling like I’d been caught in a blizzard. I

He pushed off the wall.

"Where are you going? Is Damian ok?"

"Stay here. Lock the door. Don’t answer anyone."

"Why?"

His tone sharpened, cutting into .

I looked at him then, just for a second.

His eyes were still red, his lips pale, his body loose but ready to argue.

I didn’t have ti for this.

Not anymore.

I might dislike Damian, but I can’t leave him to die.

"Because if this is real, you might be next."

He froze.

And that gave the window I needed.

I turned and bolted, the door slamming behind so hard the fra rattled.

The car felt too small, too tight, like the air was folding in on itself.

My hands gripped the wheel so hard my knuckles went white.

Damian’s voice kept looping in my head, sharp and desperate.

He was alive.

Alive—but for how long?

And that threat... because of you. What the hell did that an? What ga was this?

Every light took too long.

Every car was too slow.

An abandoned warehouse.

Cliché as hell, but my gut told this wasn’t a prank. Not anymore.

When I pulled up, the lot was empty.

No cars. No sound.

The building lood in front of , all rust and broken windows, sagging like it wanted to collapse.

Every instinct scread don’t go in.

I didn’t listen.

I slamd the car door, boots crunching on gravel, and headed for the side entrance where the map had ended.

The tal door was cracked open, shadows bleeding out from inside.

My heartbeat was so loud I could barely hear anything else.

"Damian!"

My voice bounced back at from the dark.

Nothing.

Just the low hum of wind through broken glass.

I slipped inside, every sense wired tight. The sll hit first—dust, oil, sothing faintly sweet that made my stomach curl.

The light was dim, what little crept in through shattered panes painting the floor in stripes.

Then I saw him.

Standing in the middle of the empty floor like he’d been waiting. Damian.

He wasn’t tied up.

Not beaten.

No blood.

His clothes were clean, his body perfectly still, like he’d stepped out of a photograph.

His head turned slightly when he heard my boots echo, and his eyes locked on mine.

"Damian," I breathed.

Relief hit so hard my knees almost gave out.

I crossed the space fast, every step heavy with questions clawing at my throat.

A slight wave of anger was peeking inside as well.

I didn’t want to be here.

I’ve just left Luther alone.

"What happened? Are you—"

Sothing sharp bit into my neck.

My words died before they could leave my mouth.

I froze, shock splintering through as fingers clamped on my shoulder, keeping still.

A hiss of breath brushed my ear—soft, steady.

Then the burn started.

It spread fast, flooding from the puncture like fire under my skin.

My body jolted, heart hamring so loud it hurt.

My hand shot up to grab whoever was behind , but my muscles betrayed halfway. Weak. Useless.

The needle slid out.

I staggered, catching myself on nothing, the floor tilting under .

My breath ca rough, shallow, like I couldn’t pull enough air no matter how hard I tried.

"Wha—what—"

My voice cracked.

My vision swam, edges blurring until Damian’s face was just a sar of color in front of . I tried to focus on him, tried to read sothing—anything—in his eyes.

Guilt? Fear? Anger?

Nothing.

He was still. Too still.

It’s a setup...

Heat roared through , boiling in my veins, pooling low in my stomach until my spine arched against it.

My clothes clung to skin that felt like it was burning from the inside out.

Sweat slid down my temple as the truth slamd into , ugly and raw.

Not poison. Not tranquilizer.

Rut.

A rut starter.

"F—fuck," I rasped, my knees giving way.

My palms slapped the floor, cold concrete biting into skin that already felt fevered.

My breath tore out of , ragged and desperate. Every nerve lit up, screaming need, screaming hunger, louder than reason.

I caught a flicker of movent—boots stepping close. A voice, low, almost amused:

"Perfect."

Then everything went black.