CHAPTER 460: CHAPTER 460: THE SECOND ONE

By the time Dean Fitzgeralt turned eighteen, the manor had developed a new category of silence, one that hovered between parental dread and the kind of anticipatory resignation normally reserved for weather warnings.

Trevor recognized it immediately.

Lucas felt it in his bones.

Windstone had already prepared towels, cold packs, and a mop.

And Sebastian, now twenty-four and dangerously serene in the way only an eldest sibling could be, sat at the kitchen island with a mug of tea and said without looking up from his tablet, "It’s happening, isn’t it?"

Trevor didn’t answer, but his eyes flicked to the staircase.

Lucas placed his phone down, face already tightening with old familiarity. "The fever started last night. He tried to hide it."

Sebastian snorted. "Of course he did. He thinks stealth is a personality trait."

Windstone passed through the kitchen with a tray of medications and uttered the resigned phrase he had perfected during two generations of Fitzgeralt chaos:

"We’re under manifesting conditions."

Trevor pinched the bridge of his nose. "Where is he now?"

Windstone paused. "Attempting to pretend he is perfectly fine in his room. And sweating through his shirt."

Sebastian stood, stretching lazily. "Should I get him?"

"No," Lucas said quickly. "He bit you last time he had a fever."

Sebastian lifted his sleeve, revealing a faint scar. "It was affectionate."

"It required stitches," Lucas reminded.

Windstone cleared his throat. "And disinfectant. Considerable disinfectant."

Trevor headed toward the staircase, ignoring the casual banter. "Let’s go."

—

They climbed the stairs with the quiet coordination of people who had done this before. Not this exact situation, but close enough. Manifestation was a natural milestone, but the Fitzgeralt household had a talent for doing everything dramatically.

Lucas was the first to reach the top, his steps soft, but God forbid anyone should step in his way now. This was the man who’d once shut himself in a room during his first head and hissed at Marin for opening the door too quickly. He understood the instinctive panic better than anyone.

Trevor followed, calm on the surface but with a tightness around his mouth that only appeared when his sons were involved. He hadn’t manifested until eighteen, declared a beta first, misdiagnosed twice, then abruptly punched through a bookshelf when his dominance finally activated. He remembered the fever. The confusion. The sudden urge to break anything too close.

Sebastian came last, tall, quiet, and wearing the expression of an older sibling who fully expected to be bitten again but had resigned himself to it. His dark curls had grown longer over the years, and his green eyes had sharpened into something people rarely challenged: Trevor’s eyes, behind Lucas’s color.

They reached the bedroom door.

A long beat of silence followed.

Then came the noise.

A muffled groan. A hiss. A thump. Possibly a pillow being aggressively assaulted.

Sebastian mouthed, ’See? Manifesting.’

Lucas ignored him and knocked gently. "Dean? Sweetheart, we’re coming in."

Another sound came through the door, a combination of frustration, desperation, and something that caused all three adults to straighten up at once.

Trevor opened the door.

Dean was sitting on the edge of his bed, hunched forward with both hands braced against his knees. His blonde hair clung to his forehead, damp with sweat, and his purple eyes were blown wide, almost glowing in the dim light. His breathing was tight. Labored. Controlled only by sheer willpower.

He looked up at them like they were both a lifeline and a threat to his dignity.

"I’m... fine," he managed through clenched teeth.

Sebastian leaned in and whispered, "You look like you’re about to fight gravity."

Dean bared his teeth. "Shut. Up."

Trevor stepped forward first, his voice low and steady. "Dean. You’re manifesting."

Dean closed his eyes, as if the words themselves were too loud. "I don’t want to. Not right now."

Lucas sat beside him, careful not to touch. "It doesn’t ask your permission. Believe me."

Dean swallowed hard. "I’m too hot. My skin hurts. Everything smells like... like..."

"Family," Sebastian supplied unhelpfully. "You’re perceiving signatures."

Dean shot him another glare, though weaker this time. "You’re loud."

"I get that a lot," Sebastian said.

Trevor checked Dean’s forehead, ignoring the half-hearted attempt to dodge. "Fever’s up. Pulse too fast."

Lucas shifted closer, lowering his voice. "Do you feel unsafe?"

Dean shook his head immediately. "No. Just... wrong. Like my body’s updating without me."

Trevor nodded. "That’s normal. Annoying, but normal."

Windstone appeared in the doorway, calm as ever, holding a fresh set of towels and a cool pack. "Do we require assistance?"

Dean muttered something that sounded like, "No, go away," but it came out more like a wounded growl.

Lucas took the items with a grateful look. "We’ve got him. Thank you."

Sebastian crouched in front of his brother. "Dean."

Dean looked at him through overheated, blurry eyes.

"You’re okay," Sebastian said. "Really. You’re just... leveling up."

That got a faint sound of indignation out of Dean. "I’m not a video game."

"You kind of are," Sebastian countered. "You unlocked a new difficulty mode."

Dean’s shoulders trembled with the ghost of a frustrated laugh. "Sebastian, I swear, I will..."

"Bite me?" Sebastian offered. "It’s fine. I’m prepared."

Lucas rubbed his temples. "No biting your brother."

Trevor reached for Dean’s arm, helping him stand. "Come on. Medical room. Marin will check you."

Dean wavered for a moment, knees buckling. Sebastian caught his other arm instantly.

"I’ve got him," Sebastian said.

Dean looked between them, overwhelmed but too tired to fight it any longer. "Don’t... leave."

Lucas’s expression softened. "We won’t. Not for a second."

Together, the three of them guided him down the hall. Dean leaned heavily against Trevor at first, then Sebastian when his strength faltered, then Lucas when instinct drew him closer.

And through it all, the scent of dominance followed them like a spark waiting for a flame.

Dean Fitzgeralt, eighteen years old, was becoming something rare and powerful.

And as the family eased him into the medical room, Trevor glanced at Lucas and murmured the truth both had been dancing around since last night:

"Here we go again."

Lucas nodded, brushing Dean’s hair back as Marin hurried in.

"Yes," he whispered. "But this time he won’t face a single moment alone."