Chapter 346

Dr. Wang

I gulp down the glass of whiskey, staring at the view from the hotel window.

Elliot has always been surrounded by Alphas. I didn’t think much of it before—he’s extremely beautiful, and like any beautiful flower, there are bound to be multiple bees.

But thinking about what she said...

I get angry.

Elliot is greedy.

It’s as if one Alpha could never be enough for him. He always needs more. More attention. More devotion. More wanting.

I’ll have to correct this behavior.

I’ll make sure one Alpha is enough.

And that Alpha will be me.

Just then, a knock at the hotel room door. I open it. Standing there is the recessive omega.

This has gone on too long. But it’s rare to find an Omega capable of handling my needs, and I’m not interested in Betas.

"You’re late," I say.

"I’m sorry, Dr. Wang. There was traffic, and—"

I cut him off. "Enough."

I step aside, letting him in, and shut the door behind him.

***

Daphne

It takes everything in me not to punch Damien in the face every time I watch him with Vivienne.

I didn’t think this through.

Now how do I bring it up to Olga? Hey, Mum, I want your son’s fiancée.

Honestly, I don’t care about reputation at all. But Vivienne probably does.

It’s so hard.

I sit on my balcony, watching Vivienne sit next to Damien in the garden below, playing the role of the picture-perfect couple. A group of other families has gathered,some political thing, some social obligation.

I can’t torture myself like this.

I turn around and head back inside.

Well. Everything else aside, my actual mission is going pretty well. The harem is breaking down. Vincent is gone. Charles and Elijah are tangled up in each other.

Only Damien still wants the best of both worlds. But it doesn’t work that way. I’ll have to make him choose.

Dr. Wang is a little insane, but that’s exactly why I’m provoking him. I don’t have to do anything. I’ll make sure he gets rid of the competition, and I’ll just watch from the sidelines.

I sit on my bed. Restless.

I need to release this energy somehow.

So I stand, grab my jacket, and head out. I don’t acknowledge the little family gathering in the garden. Down the stairs, keys in hand, out the door.

I change cars halfway, circle the block twice, make sure no one’s following.

The warehouse on the outskirts looks abandoned, but I know better. Seven knocks. The door opens. I follow the familiar route down, down, down—the sounds getting louder with every step. Screams. Cheers. The wet crack of bone.

The basement opens into an underground arena. Bare bulbs swinging overhead. A ring of bodies pressing close, hungry for blood.

Well.

I pull my jacket off. Roll my shoulders. Step forward.

Time to dance.

*

I look at my reflection and realize I may have gone overboard.

Busted lip. Black eye. Split knuckles. My knuckles are raw, bleeding through the makeshift bandage I wrapped around them. There’s a gash on my ribs I don’t even remember getting.

I sigh. How the fuck am I going to explain this?

I guess I won’t head home for a while. Maybe I should go abroad under the guise of a business trip? Slink off to some hotel where no one knows me, wait for the bruises to fade, the swelling to go down. Come back when I look less like I’ve been through a war.

I didn’t mean to. Really, I didn’t.

But I am, unfortunately,sometimes an adrenaline junkie.

I love fighting—the rush, the focus, the way the world narrows to nothing but my body and my opponent. The feeling of breaking bones gives me a high I can’t explain.

Well. I don’t feel this way when I’m with her.

When I’m with her, the restlessness fades. The itch under my skin disappears. I don’t need to break bones or feel my knuckles split open just to remember I’m alive. She does that just by existing.

I splash water on my face. Flinch. The sting grounds me, pulls me back to the present.

I grab the first aid kit from under the sink and disinfect my lip. The antiseptic burns. Good. I deserve it.

My eye is swelling shut. My ribs ache. My knuckles are a mess.

I look at my reflection.

Wow, Daphne. Real nice.

I definitely cannot show up in front of anyone like this.

The adrenaline is gone now. The high has faded. All that’s left is the ache in my bones and the hollow feeling in my chest.

I press a cold cloth to my eye, tilt my head back against the bathroom wall.

I hope in one of my next worlds I’ll get the chance.

[You will, Host.] The System’s voice is calm, clinical. [There are apocalyptic worlds. Worlds drenched in war. A multitude, now that we have access to mid-tier.]

Don’t talk dirty to me.

[I am not saying this in an attempt to elicit sexual arousal.]

It was a figure of speech. I press the cold cloth harder against my eye. Sometimes you’re so dumb, 404.

The System doesn’t respond.

For something that claims it has no emotions, it certainly expresses them. Right now, it’s probably sulking.

Anyway.

Business trip it is.

I pull out my phone and start typing an email to my assistant.

Urgent matter overseas. Will be gone for two weeks. Handle everything in my absence.

I pause. Two weeks isn’t enough. The black eye alone will take at least ten days to fade, and the split lip will leave a scar if I’m not careful. Three weeks gives me time to heal.

I change it to three weeks.

I add: Will check in weekly. Forward all urgent matters to my secure line.

That should be enough. My assistant is competent. She’s handled worse.

I hit send.

The email vanishes into the void. Somewhere, my assistant is probably sighing. She’s used to this by now.