CHAPTER 125: KILLIAN IS HERE ( TOM’S POV )

"Yes, ma’am. How long until you get here?"

"Shall I leave you a bit of time to escape, my dear Thomas?"

"I’d be grateful nonetheless."

"Such a smooth talker. I quite miss that witty tongue of yours."

Disgusting.

But necessary.

That is what my relationship with Lucrezia has been from the start. And that hasn’t changed yet.

The political table was quite simple to play.

The president was sitting as the King.

Everybody sneakered around him trying to gain one thing only- a presidential pardon.

In plain terms, you got your president to give you the pardon, you become invincible.

No laws.

No restrictions.

As long as you hid your actions from the public eye, you become unstoppable.

The Queen—The Prime Minister—was not a piece so much as a hunger in motion.

He didn’t sit still.

He devoured.

His moves weren’t dictated by protocol or honor—only by appetite.

He was the hand that swept across the chessboard, rearranging pawns into bishops, bishops into liabilities, liabilities into dust.

He couldn’t grant invincibility like the President’s pardon.

But what he could do was better: he gave opportunity.

Temporary bursts of sanctioned power—just enough rope to let a man rise.

Or hang himself.

His death left an open position on the board, close enough to threaten all the other pieces with a hard time if action won’t be taken immediately.

And then came Lucrezia Akna.

Not a piece.

A curve on the board.

Wherever she stepped, the grid distorted.

If the Prime Minister pulled strings, she was the one who designed the marionettes.

She moved like a Knight—crooked and confounding.

Never where you expected her.

But always where she wanted to be.

Lucrezia didn’t write laws. She rewrote needs.

She didn’t negotiate deals. She whispered just loud enough the desires she could see in the others. And there was nobody better at it than her.

When she smiled at a man, entire industries tilted in his favor.

When she frowned, ports closed. Banks bled. Ministries buckled.

She didn’t ask for favors. She watched.

And that was always enough.

Then there was Mark Begniffello.

The Bishop.

Not for his faith—he had none—but for his reach.

He moved diagonally through everything. Never directly.

He was the whisper in the club lounge.

The signature on the offshore memo.

The footnote in the tax exemption nobody noticed—until it was too late.

He never took credit. Never stood on podiums.

But every shift in wealth, every new clause passed in the late hours of Parliament,

every mine opened on sacred land—Mark’s breath was there.

You just had to know where to listen.

He didn’t speak to the President.

He spoke through the Queen.

The rest of the pieces were changed based on their performance. Only these four titans never bowed no matter how strong the winds were.

Guess there is no stronger wind than death.

Or than each other.

I was introduced to Lucrezia by Mark. His foolish plan to transform the omega population from a group of normal civilians into a delicacy planted me into her arms to gain advantage.

Two flaws in that plan— well, one common denominator.

Mark thought I was helping.

Lucrezia thought I was a puppet.

And I was neither.

Last thing I cared about is another method higher class could suck dry the lower ones by some nonsensical capitalistic schemes.

Or to live in comfort for the rest of my days as long as I were to satisfy the egotistical needs of a book-case narcissistic matriarch.

My goal was always Luther.

Since the day I laid my eyes on him in that doomed day of high school.

But it dawned on me how unreachable he was after the incident.

Only after I woke up, I met Luther’s father for the first time. And suddenly —

All I have wanted all these years: money, fame, recognition—

All was given to me just to disappear from Luther’s life.

"Think, boy, you can not accept it and leave the rest of your days regretting it. Not to mention that Luther will suffer the consequences of your stupidity."

A week.

That’s how long I hung to Luther.

That’s how long it took me to get smart.

I was a nothing.

I couldn’t give Luther anything, but with this opportunity —

I could become good enough.

And after all, when all is set and done, all I had to do was find a way to kill the Prime Minister.

Or whoever was standing in the way of my love.

"You have an hour, Tommy. You’ll compensate me for it."

"Of course, madam Akna. You already know how grateful I can be."

Hearing that woman giggle turned my stomach, but it was a necessary sacrifice.

Last one, since from today she will deem me useless.

She already dirtied her hands with the Prime Minister’s blood. She can’t use that truth to blackmail me since I told Luther I did it.

And he chose to believe me.

So I serve no use of her anymore.

I hung up.

That was it. Lucrezia was done with me.The room felt colder without her voice.I stood still for a second. Breathed in. Focused.

One last task, then I was out.

Three knocks.

I opened the door.

Killian stepped in first. Expression flat. He didn’t bother looking at me.

Claus followed. His eyes scanned everything. He was already grinning.

Both of them moved like they knew the place. Like they owned it.

I motioned toward the hallway.

They didn’t follow. They stood there. Waiting.

I turned and walked ahead, opened the door to the spare room, showed them in.

They stepped in slowly, without a word.

I stayed near the doorway. Watching them.

They didn’t move at first. Just looked at me.

"Hurry up, get Luther out of here! Lucrezia will be here any minute now!"

Their expressions stayed the same. Until they didn’t.

Claus tilted his head. His grin widened.Killian’s chest started to move faster.

They both began to laugh.

Quiet at first. Low. Controlled.

Then louder.

Claus hunched slightly, shoulders shaking.Killian threw his head back, sound bursting out of him like something breaking.

It wasn’t natural.

I didn’t say anything. I just watched.

My heart started to pound, but I kept my face still.

They were still laughing. Louder. Almost gasping now.

Something was off.

"What the f-ck is wrong with you two? Hurry up!"

"Oh, poor Tom, he really thinks a beta will end up with Luther!"

"Maybe he thinks his little chemical trick will help fool everyone into thinking he is an actual alpha!"

"How much more do you think Mark will supply you?"

"Your body is already breaking from all the blood transfusions. You really think you can go on with your little scheme?"

"Luther doesn’t even love you anymore."

"He hates you!"

"He is sick because of you!"

"You make everything worse!"

"You should die! After all, who cares if another insignificant beta dies?"

"Who cares?"

"Who cares?"

"Who cares?"

I took a step back. Something tugged inside me.I looked down.

There was a line across my shirt. It hadn’t been there before.The fabric was darker now. Spreading.

I touched it. My hand pressed into something soft, too soft.

Warm. Wet.

I pulled my fingers back. Blood.

The fabric parted. My skin was open.

I could see the wound now—straight across my lower abdomen. Deep.

My insides had started to push out, slow, heavy.

I staggered back, hit the wall.My knees gave out.

They were still laughing. Not even watching me anymore.

Claus leaned against the wall, clutching his stomach like it hurt to laugh that hard.Killian wiped tears from his eyes.

I couldn’t breathe right. Every inhale felt like dragging broken glass through my ribs.

The blood kept coming.

I pressed both hands over the cut, tried to push everything back in.It didn’t help.

My vision blurred. My legs were numb.

They finally looked down at me. Just a glance. No surprise.They knew that I was bleeding out.

Of course they knew.

My back hit the floor. My head rolled to one side.I could still hear them. Still laughing.

Everything felt distant now. The ceiling was too bright. My body was too far away.

I kept my hands pressed against the wound.But I couldn’t feel the pressure anymore.

The light is blinding. Burning my eyes.

"Up already?"

My eyes fought it. My lungs pulled in cold, chemical air. I couldn’t move. My wrists were tied down, straps tight across my forearms and chest. My head was heavy, but I managed to turn it slightly.

Emiliano stood over me.

His surgical gloves were soaked, smeared in red that had started to dry at the knuckles. His face was pale.

Serious.

Tired.

He didn’t speak. He just stared at me, then turned to the tray beside him and adjusted something I couldn’t see.

I tried to lift my head. It barely moved, but I saw enough.

My abdomen was open. Cut straight through. Held apart with clamps. My insides were no longer inside.

They were in bowls. Stainless steel. Lined up in order along the table, steaming slightly in the cold air.

My blood was everywhere, but the bleeding had mostly stopped.

I stared at it—my own intestines looped and carefully laid out like he was organizing them.

But I felt nothing.

No pain.

Not even pressure.

I was awake. I was breathing. But I might as well have been a photograph of myself.

Emiliano didn’t meet my eyes again. He kept working. Quiet. Efficient. Like he’d done this before. Like this wasn’t strange.

I tried to speak but my throat was too dry. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. I tasted metal.

He paused then. Finally looked at me. His face didn’t change. No fear. No surprise. Just fatigue.

Whatever he was doing, he wasn’t finished. He talked, disinterested.

"I wanted to kill you initially, but it seemed like a waste. After all, you acted atypically from a normal beta. Might as well take a look and see if I could use you."

I gulped. Still couldn’t talk.

But my mind was rushing. How much of that hallucination was actually true?

Did I call Lucrezia? Did I talk with Damian on the phone?

What did I even say to them?

Where is Luther?

Emiliano’s voice echoed yet again from behind his mask.

"Neat little trick you had there. Never thought that the blood of a pure alpha blood—obtained from a pure lineage of alphas who reproduced with alpha women to assure the purity of their kids— would have such effects. Temporarily making you an alpha."

Emiliano moved calmly, switching between instruments without hesitation.

Forceps down, scalpel up. He wiped the blade once on a cloth, then made a small adjustment near my exposed side.

His hands were steady, practiced.

"That took a tool on your body though. Your secondary-gender gland is basically fried down which God knows what means. Your internal organs are about 0, 05% more swollen. Mind you, at 1% you would have just popped open like a balloon."

He then shifted to a syringe, checked the plunger, injected something into the IV near my shoulder.

Then scissors.

A clamp.

A metal probe.

He worked like time didn’t matter.

"But it’s a nice idea. To give an addiction drug that makes the betas alphas for a short term of time. Who would have thought about it? Betas are such an unexplored category. But you’re in luck, Tom dear. Your little trick is the reason you are alive now."

Emiliano leaned in, silent, focused.

With gloved hands, he began lifting the lengths of intestine from the surgical bowls, inspecting each one briefly before placing it back inside me.

The organs slipped into position like pieces of a puzzle he already knew by heart.

He adjusted them gently, methodically, folding and settling them into place.

"My wife seems attached to you as well. Keeping you barely alive, dependent on my help might give me leverage over him. Marriage is hard work after all."

My throat burned. Each breath dragged rough against it, but I forced air up anyway. My lips moved. Dry. Cracked. The first sound came out broken, but enough for him to understand.

"Killian is here."