CHAPTER 124: FINDING LUTHER ( KILLIAN’S POV )

"Sir, he is not at the Salisbur residence either."

"Well? Find another! Just how many residences can that b-stard own?"

The two men nodded tiredly and left for another search with probably no results.

Pointless.

It was all pointless.

Emiliano is a rat. He is good at causing damage, stealing, sneaking and hiding. I need a trap. One good enough to lure him out.

But he already has Luther.

And that is his only weakness.

He is hiding him good enough for the police not to find him.

I am not the only one on a witch hunt for Luther.

For a week, the national television did nothing but drag his name through the mud.

Terrorist.

A killer.

A bloodthirsty heir with an opulent lifestyle.

A manwh-re.

A corrupt politician.

They hired some poor second-hand actors to ramble some senseless story about how Luther used to be a bully.

The national public ate that up despite the bad acting. Which says a lot about our nation, but I digress.

Of course, my aunt made sure to burn all the bridges between the deceased Prime Minister and the nation’s disgrace.

"Poor father."

"Such an embarrassment to the family."

"No wonder his father disciplined him like that. I would have done worse."

In the enlightenment of these new events, my dear aunt made just enough space under the spotline to introduce Claus not only as the true heir of the Prime Minister, but the best choice for his father’s function.

The adoption, which usually would have been seen as a weakness, transformed into something to be applauded for.

"He had seen who his son was and adopted someone fitted to be his heir"

"Such a wise man. That brat would have spent every cent of his wealth on debauchery."

"The new son is such a good guy. He is truly worthy of the position."

I know. I know. Ridiculous.

Not only they’ve been manipulated that the only good choice for the position is one inherent by ’blood’—

Like we are living in the 1800s and the aristocracy’s blood is sacred ( which is ridiculous since Claus is not even related by blood)—

But they are leaded like sheep by my aunt and his minions.

So Luther is searched up and down the state to be sacrificed publicly, stripped by any wealth and power and humiliated.

I am trying to find him first.

Who would expect the nephew of his biggest political enemy, a man who is to marry in 9 months, of hiding the national threat?

Of course, if I would have him in front of me, I could explain everything. He would understand.

He would appreciate my protection.

And over time, the people will forget and eventually we will end up together.

The monitor flickers, dim light bouncing off my reflection.

My hair is a mess, sticking up in strange angles like I’ve been electrocuted.

My green eyes are bloodshot, the skin under them darkened with exhaustion.

There’s a tightness in my face, lips cracked and dry, shirt wrinkled and clinging to me with stale sweat.

I haven’t left the research center in days.

Not really.

I check on Damian daily, but it’s a dreadful formality really.

I’ve been sleeping on the office couch, the floor sometimes, wherever exhaustion wins.

My apartment’s not mine anymore. Damian’s in it. Took it over like he took everything else.

Every time I see him, something sharp twists in my gut.

The scent he carries—sweet, cloying, overbearing—clings to the air like rot masked with sugar.

It makes me nauseous.

My stomach flips, throat tightens, skin crawls. I can’t breathe when he’s near, but I can’t escape him.

He’s always around now. Always watching, always smiling, pretending this nightmare is some kind of blessing.

I can’t even look at him without feeling sick.

I still don’t remember the night it happened.

The night I marked him. He keeps telling me I did, keeps reminding me that my scent is all over him, that the bond is confirmed.

But I never agreed to it.

Never wanted it.

The memory’s blank.

Just an empty void where something violent and irreversible took place. He says I was in rut. That he helped me.

He calls it an accident.

I call it something else.

But no one listens.

Not when the results speak for themselves. Not when Damian walks everywhere with his barely swollen stomach and smug expression like he won.

Like this is just a bump in our relationship and we will get over it.

They’re calling me a father now.

That word doesn’t mean anything to me.

I didn’t choose this.

I don’t know what he did to me, how he drugged me or manipulated me or got close enough to let it happen.

But I know that child is not mine.

Can’t be.

Something in me refuses to accept it. It’s not just denial—it’s certainty. The paternity test said the same thing I do.

I can’t trust anything around him. Not even myself.

Not even my memories.

They tell me I have a responsibility. That I need to provide. That I need to be involved.

But they don’t feel what I feel. The weight. The disgust. The invasion. The betrayal.

Every second I spend in this place feels like a sentence.

Like I’m trapped in a life someone else wrote for me.

And no matter how many hours I bury myself in research or how long I stare at my reflection, trying to remember the man I used to be, nothing changes.

Damian still owns my apartment.

My body still bears the bond.

And that thing growing inside him still bears my name.

Despite me saying no.

I miss Luther.

Sometimes, when the silence in the lab gets too loud, I close my eyes and go back to that night at the hotel with Luther.

Just the two of us, tangled in the sheets, sweat slicking our skin, our bodies pressed so close it was hard to tell where I ended and he began.

The air had been thick with heat and the taste of each other, breaths coming in short gasps, hands desperate and searching.

Our heartbeats were wild, thundering in our chests, so loud they felt like they’d tear through our ribs.

No fear, no regret—just the calm after the storm, the weightless quiet of something real.

His fingers in my hair, his voice low and hoarse against my neck.

I hold onto that memory like a lifeline. It’s the only place that still feels like mine.

The only thing untouched by everything Damian poisoned.

Just tainted by my regrets.

If I wouldn’t have left to save Damian,

If I would have power off my phone and eat breakfast with Luther,

If only I had held him tight enough.

"Sir, you have a visitor."

The rough voice of one of my guys startled me out of my daydreaming.

Redundant to say it irritated me.

"If it’s Damian, send him home."

"It’s not, sir."

Not Damian?

"Let him in then."

Claus stepped into my office like he’d forgotten why he came.

The door clicked shut behind him, but he didn’t move any farther, just stood there in the faint glow from my computer.

His suit was sharp, too formal for this hour, probably straight from another political meeting where he’d smiled just enough and said all the right things to secure the position they handed him—Prime Minister.

But now, under the flickering ceiling light, he didn’t look victorious.

He looked tired. Not the kind of tired that sleep could fix, but the kind that settled deep in the bones and never left.

His hair was combed back with care, though it was starting to fall slightly out of place.

His blue eyes looked like glass—cold, dull, hollow.

He reeked faintly of scotch, the kind expensive enough to impress foreign delegates but poured too quickly tonight.

His shoulders slouched slightly, not from arrogance, but from something heavier.

Regret, maybe.

He was still tall—6’1", still the same man in shape—but there was nothing solid in him now.

He looked like he was barely holding it together. Nothing as the smug b-stard I’ve met almost half a year ago.

I didn’t offer him a seat. Just sat behind my desk and watched him with a twisted kind of disgust.

"Did you find it yet?"

"Why? Want to crucify him publicly to secure your function?"

"You know it’s not like that..."

"You have everything you could hope for just handed to you. Don’t get greedy!"

"That’s rich coming from you."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"You’re right. I’m a handout. But aren’t you the same, munching on your aunt’s wealth while dancing to her tune? We are the same, Killian!"

"The f-ck we are!"

I have no idea when I got out of my seat and grabbed his collar, but I was one wrong breath from putting him back into the coma.

"Why are we different then?"

"I am trying to find Luther and fix it all!"

"How? You’re expecting a child with another omega. You destroyed Luther’s reputation as much as I did. If you are greedy enough to hope for forgiveness, why can’t I?"

My fist tightened, knuckles white, inching forward to land the punch.

The anger boiled, every muscle coiled, ready to snap.

Then the door slammed open with a sharp crack.

Damian stood there, smirking like he owned the room—like he always did.

His eyes gleamed with that sick, arrogant confidence, completely unfazed by the tension thickening the air.

The faint scent of his overpowering sweetness hit me instantly, making my stomach twist tighter.

I froze mid-motion, the punch hanging useless in the air as his grin widened.

"Found him."