CHAPTER 107: THREE WAY KISS ( EMILIANO’S POV )

"This is—"

The last drop of Luther’s blood. Mixed with the blood of an omega that was in the same facility with him.

And so, I got my recipe for my perfect society. Luther’s Pheromones. They expand the secondary-gender gland responsible for the absorption of normal pheromones, pushing it to an inflated state that allows the blood to carry the chemicals for the scent to the brain.

So blood isn’t enough.

The scent is the trigger. Without it, the chain stops cold.

That’s why it didn’t affect me. That’s why it affected Claus.

While I injected my pheromones into my his blood the first night of his kidnapping–

Together with the fact that I am an artificial alpha, it makes perfect sense why I was not affected.

As for Claus, his beta trait made the gland only activate the moment Luther’s pheromones spiked. Resulting in him becoming an alpha.

All I need to do is to find a way to diffuse Luther’s pheromones throughout the city while incorporating his blood in any and every inhibitor of heat and rut.

My perfect society was so close, I could almost see it. And all because of my darling wife.

I miss him.

I look at the screen.

His vitals flash red.

Heart rate: 191 BPM. Adrenaline maxed. He’s running hot—too hot.

If he breaks, everything breaks.

What is happening to him?

The GPS dot pulses on a green patch far from the city.

A mansion.

Private.

Secure.

He’s inside.

I don’t recognize the location.

I rip the device from its cradle, shove it in my pocket.

The chair smashes against steel drawers as I move.

Boots slam metal stairs.

The warehouse door screams as I rip it open.

Cold air slaps me hard.

Sirens moan distant.

Drones slice the sky with white beams, searching for me.

I move through alleys fast, lungs tearing, muscles locking into pure motion.

The bike waits in shadow. I yank the cover off, kick the engine to life, twist hard. The city peels away in a blur of dark glass and broken light.

The screen on the dash blinks. He’s not moving.

But his vitals climb.

194.

196.

Close to the edge.

I push faster.

The city dies into empty roads lined with manicured hedges. Steel gates glint under floodlights. Cameras sweep lazy arcs, blind to anything real.

Then I see it—the house. Glass and steel stacked high, windows burning warm light.

Quiet.

Too quiet.

I ditch the bike, vault the gate, hit the gravel silent.

The air is heavy here.

Warm.

Thick.

Then it hits me—his scent.

Saturated.

Sharp.

Burning into me like heat under the skin.

Every nerve lights. He’s bleeding pheromones like fire from an open vein.

I move fast along the wall. A side window gapes open. Idiots. I slip inside, boots kissing marble.

The smell of blood hits next.

Fresh.

Iron sharp.

Not heavy enough for death.

Just pain.

I follow it. Steps silent over polished stone, up a sweeping staircase. The sound grows as I climb—wet thuds, short breaths, something heavy hitting the floor.

The door is half-open. I push through.

And there he is.

Luther.

On top of Tom.

Luther’s fists piston down, each hit cracking against bone and meat.

Tom’s face is a mess—swollen eye, split lip, blood pouring from his nose. But he’s still conscious. Still twitching under the weight pressing him down.

Smiling and accepting every punch.

Luther doesn’t care.

He hammers again.

And again.

Knuckles raw now, split wide. His forearms shake, veins bulging like cords. His breath tears out fast and harsh, chest pumping like a piston. Sweat drips from his jaw, mixing with the blood streaked across his skin.

I stop in the doorway. And I watch.

My throat tightens, heart pounding so hard it steals air.

He’s perfect.

My perfect chaos.

My beautiful little puppy.

My wife.

Every blow sends his scent crashing through the room, thick enough to taste. My lungs choke on it, and I want more.

Tom coughs wet, choking on his own spit. Blood spatters the floor in sharp drops.

His arms twitch weakly, trying to shield his face.

Luther rips them down and drives another punch into his cheek.

A dull crack.

Not bone breaking—just flesh folding under force.

"How could you? I trusted you!"

His voice echoed full of rage and betrayal. Love Island had nothing on the drama that was in this apartment.

Not to mention this is hotter too.

He’s all instinct now.

No control.

No hesitation.

No fear.

His glands must be wide open, drowning him in aggression.

Every second burns his body hotter. His vitals spike in my head—198. 199.

His heart’s screaming.

And I can’t move.

I can’t look away.

My hands shake, not from fear but from wanting to feel it—his heat, his blood, the pulse hammering through him like a war drum.

I take a step forward. My boot slides in a streak of red. Warm. Real.

I move closer.

Closer to him.

"You’re gonna have sore fists tomorrow, puppy!"

His head snaps up.

Eyes wild.

He freezes mid-swing, fist still hanging over Tom’s face. Breath ripping in and out, chest heaving like it’s going to crack. Sweat sticks to his skin, blood streaking his jaw, dripping off his knuckles.

For a second, the room locks. The air is a blade between us. My pulse is a gunshot in my throat.

Tom moves first.

He shoves against the floor, rolls out from under Luther, stumbling on his knees, hands slipping in the blood. His face is a mess, but his eyes are clear enough to see me standing there.

He knows.

He lurches up fast and throws himself in front of Luther, arms spread like he’s a wall. His legs shake, but he plants them, chest rising hard.

Blood drips down his chin, patters on the carpet, but he doesn’t fall.

Luther is still on the floor, knees wide, fists clenched tight. His gaze doesn’t leave mine. Eyes blown wide, pupils black, breathing sharp like knives in his lungs.

His knuckles twitch, like his body can’t decide whether to hit or hold.

The scent is heavier now. Soaked into the walls, grinding into my skin, choking every breath until I feel it in my teeth.

Luther shifts slow.

Pushes up to his feet without looking away from me.

Shoulders square, blood streaked across his chest. His hands curl loose, then tight again.

Tom’s arm shoots out, pressing against his chest, holding him back.

Luther doesn’t move.

Just stares.

And I stand there, one step inside the room, boots in blood, hands shaking, every nerve ready to tear open.

Waiting for my dear wife to greet me.

"What the h-ll are you doing here?"

"Lower your voice, Tom dear, I am here to collect my wife."

"Like h-ll you are!", Luther mumbled aggressively.

"C’mon, puppy, we have work to do."

"He is not going anywhere!"

Tom shoves me.

It’s weak. Barely a push. My boots slide half an inch across the blood-slick floor.

I look at him once.

Slow. Unimpressed.

My hands stay loose at my sides while he plants himself harder in front of me, like he still thinks he matters. His lip splits wider when he clenches his jaw. Blood threads down his chin.

I don’t move for him.

I brush the front of my jacket where his hand touched, slow and deliberate, flicking the smear off like dust. My eyes stay past him the whole time.

On Luther.

On my wife.

His chest heaves, muscles tight, sweat and blood cutting lines over skin. His fists curl at his sides, knuckles raw and dripping, but he doesn’t look away. Not once.

I lift my hand.

Straight out. Palm open.

Not to Tom.

To him.

The room holds. His breath tears out in jagged bursts. His pupils blow wider. His throat works like he’s swallowing fire.

And I wait.

My fingers don’t shake. My hand doesn’t drop.

He takes one step forward.

"Lu?"

Luther slightly grabs Tom to face him.

His arm hooks around Tom, pulling him in slow. Tom stiffens, breath catching, but he doesn’t fight.

He leans.

Or maybe he just falls.

Their foreheads press.

Luther’s chest is still pumping, heat rolling off him in waves.

His blood streaks Tom’s face when he tilts his head.

Then his mouth finds Tom’s.

Soft.

Slow.

A drag of lips against lips, even with blood in between.

I watch.

Every second claws down my spine.

Heat coils in my gut, sharp and deep, burning hotter with every move Luther makes.

The scent in the room spikes, thick as smoke, crawling down my throat until it feels like I’m breathing him.

His eyes open.

Not on Tom.

On me.

The kiss doesn’t stop.

His mouth stays on Tom, moving lazy, gentle, nothing like the fists that broke his face minutes ago.

But his gaze locks on mine and holds.

Unblinking.

Something twists hard inside me.

Rage cuts through the heat, bitter and sharp. My fists curl, nails slicing skin.

Every nerve screams to move, to rip them apart, to take what’s mine.

But I don’t.

I smirk instead. Slow. Controlled.

And I wait.

Luther doesn’t stop.

If anything, the way I stand still makes something in him twist.

His mouth drags harder against Tom’s, turning soft into deep, slow into hungry.

His hand fists in Tom’s hair, jerking his head back just enough to crush their mouths closer.

Tom whimpers against him, sound trapped between lips and blood.

The other hand moves.

Down Tom’s chest. Fingers tug at buttons, slick with blood, sliding one by one.

The shirt parts, skin flashing under the smear of red.

My jaw locks.

Eyes roll up hard, heat coiling behind them like pressure about to blow.

Unimpressed.

Bothered.

Both choking me at once.

I move.

One step. Then two. Then I’m on them.

My chest hits Tom’s back.

His body jolts, caught between both of us now, breath tearing out in sharp bursts.

He tries to twist, but he’s too crushed to do something.

My hand comes up.

Grips the back of Luther’s head.

Hard.

Fingers knot in his damp hair and shove.

Driving him deeper into Tom’s mouth until it’s no longer a kiss—just mouths crashing, teeth scraping, air gone.

Tom’s muffled gasp vibrates against Luther’s lips.

My other hand slides down.

Finds Luther’s wrist where it’s working at those buttons.

I cover it.

Curl my fingers over his.

Guide them.

Slow.

Making him finish what he started, but only how I want it.

My touch drags his, knuckles brushing, heat sparking at every point we meet.

Luther doesn’t fight.

His head presses harder under my grip, mouth crushing Tom’s until the sound coming out is raw panic and broken moans.

His eyes stay locked on mine the whole time.

Wide. Dark.

Breath tearing out of him hot against Tom’s ruined lips.

Tom shudders like he’s going to break in half, muscles jumping under both our hands, torn between every pull and push.

My smirk sharpens slow, cutting the air like a blade. I lean in closer, closing the gap until Luther’s breath is sliding over my skin too.

And I don’t blink.

Not once.

"If my puppy wants to play with his new toy, what else can I do but play along?"