For nearly an hour, Marcus stood guard in the outer office, his hands trembling as he stared at the security feed. He had seen Malcolm Ford through many crises—hostile takeovers, assassination attempts, and the grueling physical toll of the Alpha lifestyle—but he had never seen a rut cycle hit like this. It was premature. The data in Malcolm's health profile was clear: his cycle was mid-month, rhythmic, and predictable. To have it strike now, on the first day of the month, was a biological anomaly that defied every medical record they possessed.
Finally, the guttural sounds from behind the reinforced door subsided into a chilling silence.
Marcus took a deep breath, adjusted his filtered mask, and swiped his master key. "Sir? Mr. Ford? The tremors seem to have—"
The words died in his throat. The sight that met him was not the image of a cooling Alpha. It was a massacre of the self.
Malcolm was slumped against the headboard of the king-sized bed, his body a map of violent internal struggle. The sheer pressure of the suppressed rut—had caused a systemic rupture. Crimson was weeping from the corners of his eyes, his nostrils, and the seams of his lips. His fingernails had dug deep gouges into his own forearms in an attempt to distract the brain with physical pain. The expensive silk sheets were ruined, stained with the dark, heavy iron of Alpha blood.
"God... oh, God," Marcus whispered, his face turning ashen.
He moved with frantic, practiced efficiency. He knew the protocol for when Malcom broke. He grabbed the leather restraints hidden beneath the bed frame—straps designed to keep Malcolm from shattering his own bones during the height of a seizure—and cinched them around the Alpha's wrists and ankles. Malcolm was deep in the throes of a shock-induced coma.
"I need the suppressants. The Level 9s," Marcus muttered to himself, his mind racing. "The chemistry lab... the private vault."
He bolted out of the room, his shoes skidding on the polished floor. He burst through the executive doors, nearly bowling over Luca, who was still standing there like a statue of bewildered innocence.
"Stay there!" Marcus barked, not even looking at the boy as he ran toward the private elevator. "Don't move! Don't enter! If you value your life, stay in the hallway!"
The elevator chimed, and Marcus vanished.
The moment the elevator doors hissed shut, the "shaken intern" disappeared.
Dahmer Lukas stood up straight, his spine lengthening, his shoulders broadening. The glasses were pushed up onto his forehead, revealing eyes that were no longer wide and watery, but sharp, silver, and predatory.
He didn't need a key.
Dahmer walked to the heavy, locked executive doors. He didn't reach for the handle. Instead, he simply tilted his head. The air around his fingertips shimmered with a distortion—a raw manifestation of Enigma-level willpower. With a metallic thud, the heavy electronic bolts inside the door screamed and retracted, forced open by a telekinetic surge of pure authority.
He stepped inside. The scent was even more intoxicating now, laced with the metallic tang of blood. He followed it like a thread of silk, walking past the discarded suit jacket, past the smashed crystal decanter, until he stood before the bedroom door.
Click. The lock disintegrated under his touch.
Dahmer stepped into the dim, red-lit room. He stopped at the foot of the bed.
He was a man who lived in a sterile world. He bathed three times a day; he wore gloves to touch his own subordinates; he viewed the human body as a messy, inefficient machine. He hated dirt. He hated the sticky, copper smell of blood. He hated the way sweat felt on skin.
And yet, as he looked at Malcolm Ford—bruised, bleeding, and bound like a captured beast—Dahmer felt no revulsion. Instead, he felt a magnetic pull so strong it made his own chest ache.
He walked to the side of the bed and sat on the edge of the mattress. The springs groaned. He looked at Malcolm's face. Even covered in gore, the Alpha was breathtaking. The sharp jaw was shadowed with stubble; the long lashes were matted with dried crimson.
Slowly, Dahmer reached out. He wasn't wearing his black silk gloves.
His bare fingers touched Malcolm's cheek, tracing the line of a deep bruise. Then, his thumb moved to Malcolm's lips. They were hot—unnaturally hot—and stained with blood. Dahmer traced the curve of the lower lip, memorizing the texture, the heat, the exact weight of the man's breath against his skin. He leaned in so close their foreheads almost touched, his silver eyes drinking in every detail of the man he had come to destroy.
"You are a mess, Malcolm Ford," Dahmer whispered, his voice a dark, velvet caress. "A beautiful, stubborn mess."
Dahmer closed his eyes. He placed both hands over Malcolm's heart.
Dahmer began to draw the heat from his own core—the cold, regenerative power of the Enigma. He sent a pulse of white-hot energy into Malcolm's chest. He felt the Alpha's heart stutter, then stabilize. He watched, fascinated, as the bleeding stopped. The internal ruptures knit themselves back together; the bruises faded from purple to a faint yellow before vanishing entirely. The skin became flawless again, pale and cool beneath Dahmer's palms.
The healing took a toll. Dahmer's own breath hitched, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple, but he didn't stop until Malcolm's breathing was deep, rhythmic, and peaceful.
The Alpha was no longer in pain. He was merely sleeping.
Dahmer leaned down, his lips inches from Malcolm's ear. The scent of the Alpha's skin—now clean of the scent of agony—filled his senses. It was a dangerous drug, and Dahmer was realizing he was an addict.
"Stay awake," Dahmer hissed into the silence, his voice a promise of future ruin. "Do not die yet, Malcolm. You haven't paid your debt. You owe me your seed."
He pulled back, looking at the restrained Alpha one last time. He reached out and adjusted the blanket, covering Malcolm's chest.
"Project Z must succeed," he murmured.
With a final, lingering look at the man's lips, Dahmer stood up. He walked out of the room, the doors sliding shut and locking themselves behind him as if by magic. He returned to the hallway, slumped back down onto the floor, and pulled his glasses back over his eyes.
When Marcus returned five minutes later, clutching a tray of syringes, he found Luca Vane sitting in the exact same spot, looking pale, terrified, and perfectly, harmlessly small.
"I told you not to move," Marcus panted, rushing past him.
"I didn't," Luca whispered, "I haven't moved an inch."