Chapter 320

Daphne

"You can’t be serious."

I say to the System that just finished telling me what Charles Grey did.

[I am incapable of humor, Host. The events occurred as described.]

I stare at the road ahead, my brain struggling to process.

"So let me get this straight. Charles—the arrogant, womanizing, Alpha supremacist Charles—tracked down Elijah another alpha , beat him half to death, and then... Voluntarily slept with him.?"

[Correct.]

I press my fingers to my temples, trying to massage away the incoming headache.

"I don’t understand. I genuinely don’t even want to understand."

[That may be wise.]

I should just do my job. Break the harem. Save the world. Go home to Vivienne.

But my brain won’t let it go.

"Is Elliot so accepting that he’ll accept his two Alphas being involved? From what I’ve seen, secondary gender relationships in this world are treated like gay relationships in conservative societies. It’s looked down on. Badly."

[Correct. Same secondary-gender Alpha relationships are socially taboo. They threaten the traditional hierarchy.]

Which makes it such a conundrum, I shake my head thinking. Women have dicks and men can give birth, so I don’t know why it’s kind of conservative. It’s so puzzling to me.

I think about it. Would I still love Vivienne if she were an Alpha?

The question lodges in my brain, uncomfortable and persistent.

I imagine her with sharper features. Taller. Broader shoulders. That same blue gaze, but harder. More commanding.

Would I still want to trace my fingers along her jaw? Still want to hear her laugh? Still want to fall asleep with her in my arms?

Hmmmmnnn...

Well. It’s great that she isn’t. Let’s not dwell on what-ifs.

I merge back into traffic, pushing the philosophical questions aside. What matters is the practical: two Alphas who should be competing for Elliot just had a violent, confusing, potentially intimate encounter.

That’s a crack in the harem.

And cracks can be widened.

***

Vivienne

I look at the scarf and pants I’m wearing in the mirror. Presentable enough. The neckline is higher than I’d like—it covers the marks—but the rest of me looks... normal.

Though I must say, my legs are still trembling.

It’s a pleasant kind of weak. The kind that comes from three days of being thoroughly, completely, devastatingly loved.

I can still feel the ghost of her touch. Her hands on my skin. Her lips against my throat. Her voice in my ear, whispering things that made me blush and burn and want.

It’s such a buzzing sensation under my skin. Like I’m lit from within.

Just then, the door opens.

In the mirror, I make eye contact with Damien.

There goes my happy mood.

"Where were you for almost a week?" His voice is tight, controlled. "No one could contact you."

I continue fixing myself in the mirror. Adjusting the scarf. Smoothing my pants. Anything to avoid looking at him directly.

"Vivienne." His voice drops lower. A warning.

I meet his eyes in the reflection.

"Am I not allowed to have a life?" I keep my voice light. Bored. "Everyone knows about your business trips. Your overtime work. Your time with that omega." I let the words hang.

"I don’t understand why you’re asking about my whereabouts."

He flushes. Guilt? Anger? Both?

"That’s different."

"Is it?"

"I’m the mayor. I have obligations. Meetings that run late. Responsibilities—"

"And I have none?" I turn to face him properly now, arms crossed.

"I’m your fiancée, Damien. Not your property. I’m allowed to go places without reporting to you."

"It’s different you’re an..." He stops himself, but I finish the sentence for him.

"An omega." I say flatly.

He exhales, relieved I said it for him. "Yes. I’m an Alpha so my actions are nothing. But you’re an Omega. You’re expected to have propriety."

I stare at him for a long moment.

He probably thinks I was just sulking and left home. Probably can’t even imagine that I spent the night with someone else. That I spent three days with someone else.

I wonder what he would do if he found out that someone else was his sister.

The thought is petty. Vindictive. It makes me smile inside.

"Excuse me." I walk past him before I say something I can’t take back.

*

I find myself in the kitchen.

For a family as big and successful as the Hans, it’s old-fashioned to have the Omegas still cooking in this day and age. They could easily hire a team of chefs. But Olga insists on home-cooked meals, and I’ve always been grateful for it.

The kitchen is my escape.

I pick up a knife and start cutting vegetables. Carrots, then celery, then onions. The repetitive motion is soothing. Mindless. My body knows what to do even when my brain is elsewhere.

And my brain is definitely elsewhere.

I’ve never felt that way before. It was all-consuming. All-encompassing. All—

"Vivienne!"

I drop the knife, startled. My hand, there’s blood. A clean cut across my finger, welling red.

I look up. Olga is standing there, eyes wide with concern.

"I called you several times." She hurries over, taking my hand gently. "You seemed so out of it."

I run the cut under cold water while she fetches the first aid kit. Her movements are efficient, motherly—bandaging my finger with careful precision.

"I’m sorry about what my son did," she says quietly.

Oh. She thinks I’m dazed because of him.Oh, my dear Olga. Damien is not the child of yours occupying my mind right now.

"It’s okay." I offer a small smile.

She gives me an apologetic look, full of warmth and guilt.

"Go. I’ll take over."

"No." The word comes out too fast. "I need to be occupied. Please."

She studies me for a moment, then nods. "Okay. Just... stay away from the sharp objects."

She takes over the vegetable cutting, and I move to the other side of the kitchen. Measuring ingredients. Stirring pots. Simple tasks that require just enough focus to keep my hands busy but not enough to silence my thoughts.

Her hands on my skin.

Her voice in my ear.

Her lips on my—

"Vivienne, the pot."

I look down. I’ve been stirring the same spot for minutes. The soup is fine, but Olga is watching me with knowing eyes. Nope. I avoid her eyes for the rest of the time in the kitchen luckily I don’t make another mistake.