The ache in his chest was no longer a mere physical pain. It was a hollow, gnawing void that expanded with every passing second, consuming everything in its wake and leaving no room for anger, for fury, or even for hatred. Only emptiness. Cold. Dead.
His mind frayed at the edges, utterly unable to process this reality.
She is dead. She is dead. She will never open her eyes again, never smile, never utter another word to him—not even the harsh truths or insults he so deeply deserved. She would never cross her arms and say...
"...Magnus, you don’t understand! I’m not doing this just because I have nothing better to do..."
"...I just happen to love raspberries..."
"...I didn’t want a relationship until you offered..."
A wild, uncontrollable urge seized him—to snatch her up, crush her to his chest, and scream until his throat tore apart: Don’t go! Don’t you dare! Come back! I’ll fix everything, I’ll do it right this time—just come back! Don’t leave me here alone!
But it wouldn’t change anything.
If a scream could bring her back to life, if it could erase his mistakes and wash away his sins, branding out every cruel word he had ever hurled at her, every moment he had wounded her, pushed her away, or looked at her with contempt instead of love... he would have screamed until his lungs burst. He would have torn them out raw, bathed in his own blood, if only it meant bringing her back.
Then came the next wave—quiet, lifeless, and as cold as the skin beneath his fingertips. Just lie down. Lie down beside her and die. Right here on the floor of this fucking hospital, reeking of formalin and death.
No.
No.
First, he would find them. Every single person involved. Every bastard who dared lay a hand on her, who set her up, who drove her to this point—to a cold cell, to blood, to a lonely death on a hospital gurney.
He would drown this world in blood. He would reduce it to burning ruins, scorching everything they built and everything they held dear down to ash.
He would become the instrument of retribution—the monster she had once feared to see in him, the very nightmare she used to hide from at night.
And only then, when it was finished, when he was soaked in their blood, would he return to her. He would lie down beside her—wherever she might be, in a grave, a crypt, or the cold dirt. He would press his shoulder to her cold shoulder and close his eyes.
Forever.
He rose from the wooden chair, swaying as his legs had gone numb from the long vigil. Leaning down, he gathered her into his arms. She was so light, so weightless, as though nothing remained of her at all. Gently, reverently—as if afraid of hurting her, a foolish thought when nothing could ever cause her pain again—he lifted her off the cold metal examination table.
Sinking to the floor, he leaned his back against the very table where she had died. He pulled her onto his lap, wrapping his arms tight around her, pressing her against his chest. Her small, weightless head rolled back onto his shoulder, and her hair—dark, long, and tangled—spilled over him, carrying the faint, lingering traces of her body.
Blood. Sweat. Fear. Hospital disinfectant.
Yet beneath it all, it was still her. His breeder. That sweet, intoxicating scent that had driven him wild, the scent that had haunted his every dream.
A violent tremor seized him.
He shook desperately, racking with full-body spasms as if mid-seizure. His hands trembled so fiercely he could barely hold her weight; his teeth chattered despite the warmth of the room. And then, he broke.
He simply snapped.
He sank his fangs deep into her neck—right where the claim mark should have been if he hadn’t been such a coward, hiding behind a leather band and a cover-up tattoo instead of claiming her as he should have.
He bit through the flesh—cold, unresponsive, and dead. He drove his fangs straight into her scent glands, tearing into the core of her essence until a thin stream of blood trickled down her porcelain skin.
Even if she was dead...
Even if she was gone...
She would belong to him, and him alone. And he would be hers forever.
No one else would ever dare lay a hand on her, touch her, or so much as think of her without his permission.
He felt her scent absorbing through his fangs. Deep within the fangs of an Alpha lay specialized channels that drew in the scent of the breeder he claimed, embedding it into his very DNA. It became a part of his blood, his flesh, his soul. Now she was bound to him forever. Even when her body turned cold and crumbled into dust, she would live on inside his veins with every breath he took.
To hell with the consequences.
He didn’t care that claiming a dead breeder’s scent would destroy him—binding a connection that would drive him mad or kill him without her by his side.
He was already dead without her anyway.
At least this way, he would die knowing she was his.
The door crashed open. To his fading senses, it played out in slow motion—each frame stretching into an excruciating standstill.
Men in black tactical gear and face masks swarmed the room, assault rifles raised, fanning out into every corner. A canister clattered onto the floor—small, gray, and spewing a thick white fog that rolled across the tiles and rose into the air.
He pulled her closer, wrapping his body around hers as if trying to press her straight into his ribcage—hiding her where no one could ever reach her. A growl tore from his throat. It was a guttural, feral sound that made the masked soldiers exchange uneasy glances and tighten their grips on their weapons.
They were interfering.
They were stealing his chance to say goodbye. Taking her from him once again...
Refusing to grant him these final, precious seconds.
He wouldn’t give her up.
They would have to kill him right here, because he was never letting go.
His eyes grew heavy as a leaden weight dragged his eyelids down. Gas. Sedative gas. It seeped into his lungs, wrapping his mind in thick cotton. He felt his muscles betraying him, his body slumping sideways as his fingers began to uncurl against his will.
Yet even as he collapsed, he held her.
He refused to open his hands.
He refused to let go.
A man stepped into the room. Broad-shouldered and tall, wearing a white lab coat over heavy black combat boots, his face half-hidden behind a respirator mask. He crouched down in front of Magnus, exhaling a heavy sigh, and reached out to take her from his arms.
"Give... her back..." Magnus’s voice tore out, raspy, wrecked, and barely human. "Give her back to me... She’s mine... Mine..."
"She is dead," the man replied smoothly, completely devoid of emotion—a simple statement of fact. He looked down at Magnus’s blood-smeared face, then shifted his sharp green eyes to the woman’s neck. "She belongs to no one now... You’re... an animal. Why did you bite her?!"
"I’ll... tear out... your throat... Give her back."
"Bag him. He’s completely out of it."
The man scooped her into his arms and turned away. Magnus watched as his girl hung limp in a stranger’s grip, her body entirely lifeless, her head falling back as her dark hair swayed in a steady, rhythmic rhythm.
Like a pendulum.
Tick-tock, tick-tock.
Give her back.
Give her back to me.
Don’t you dare touch her.
She’s mine.
I’ll kill you.
I’ll kill every last one of you.
Give—
The words refused to form. Nothing escaped but a frantic, broken growl—a strangled rasp choking on its own sheer powerlessness.
His consciousness snapped, plunging into a sticky, suffocating abyss that dragged him under like quicksand, leaving him no strength to fight back. The absolute last thing he saw before the world went black was her being carried away. The heavy metal door slamming shut. Her vanishing from his life forever.
And one final thought surfaced before the void consumed him completely:
Little birds like her surely go to heaven.
They are given wings—glowing, pure, white angelic wings... to soar freely through the light, forever safe from the pain, the terror, and the living hell they endured down here on earth.
As for him—a sinner, a killer, a monster—there would always be a place reserved in hell.
Red-hot iron pincers would tear his flesh, break his bones, and leave him to burn in eternal flames, paying the price for every sin committed, every life cut short, and every drop of blood spilled by his hands.
Yet even there, in the deepest pit of the abyss, amidst the darkness and the flames, he would turn his eyes toward the heavens.
He would pray.
Not for salvation—he knew he didn’t deserve it.
Not for forgiveness—there was no absolution for a creature like him.
Only for one thing.
That she might accidentally glance down from the heavens and see him. Just for an instant. Just for a split second.
So that from his eternal pit, through the thick smoke, fire, and agony, he could glimpse her glowing silhouette high above.
And so that a single feather from her wing—light, weightless as a phantom kiss—might break free and drift down into the underworld where he was doomed to burn forever.
So he could catch it with his lips, press it between his teeth, hold it close to his heart... and for one fleeting second, feel her warmth again.
Before vanishing into nothingness.
---
End of Volume One.
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