CHAPTER 133: HUBBY ( EMILIANO’S POV )

"Say that again!"

"Get off!"

"That’s not what you said just now."

"I changed my mind."

How adorable flustered.

While my wife was so busy denying his own request, a very excited bulge was emanating heat and fluids through his gym pants.

My wife is a liar, but his body is not.

"Luther, I can’t touch you unless you ask me to."

"Found your long-lost cavalerism just now?"

"No. But I don’t wanna be trapped in a box as the man who is taking advantage of you."

"You already do exactly that. Just medically. What’s the difference between that and this?"

"Is that you asking?"

"I’m just curious about how your brain works. You already got me to like you despite the fact that you killed thousands of omegas, had a flower display, starved me, cut me open—"

"Got it. Got it."

"Tired of listening? Try living in my skin, dude! I can’t catch a break since you appeared in my life!"

"Puppy, I don’t wanna diminish your little tantrum, but this little guy is about to explode. Should I deal with it or not?"

I barely traced my fingertips on the form of the bulge, making Luther shiver and flinch despite the softness of my touch.

It was obvious he wanted me.

But he is stubborn and hates losing.

Such a complex wife. What to do? What to do?

"Do whatever you want."

Permission.

I’ve got permission.

Luther’s face got all flustered, eyes closed shut, but peak to see what my next move is—

Half impatient.

Half scared.

God, he’s such a tease.

As I dragged my tongue on the bump of his pants, my wife twitched under the light pressure, pushing his hips more and more into me. The soaked material already tasted a little salty.

My tongue made another pass. Slower this time. Just to hear what kind of noise he’d make if I pushed a little harder with the tip.

Ah.

That one. That muffled, breath-hitching whimper that makes my gut curl in pride. He hates how easy he is to read. Hates me for knowing how to read him.

Naturally, I love both.

With a grin I know he can’t stand, I tugged at the waistband with my teeth. No hands. No favors. Just a little bite, a little pull, and down they went, inch by inch, until the waistband was just low enough for gravity and shame to do the rest.

Shame always works best when the lights are still on.

His thighs were shaking.

Pathetic.

Beautiful.

When I finally took him in, I didn’t go slow. No pretense. No patience. Just one long inhale and down I went, letting every inch of him disappear like it was the easiest thing I’d ever done.

One gulp and I could feel him choking me, filling up my throat.

He gasped.

Not even dramatically. No theater this time. Just one raw, desperate sound like the wind had been knocked out of him.

His hands didn’t know where to go. One grabbed my hair. The other gripped the couch. Then both let go like touching anything might make him come apart too fast.

Honestly? I wouldn’t have minded.

My hand slid behind him, fingers digging into the curve of his lower back, holding him down just enough to keep him trembling right there—no escape, no retreat.

My head moved. Slow. Controlled. No mercy.

And there it was.

That tremor.

That full-body shudder like he’d short-circuited from the inside out.

His legs stiffened, then buckled just slightly at the knees. Should’ve told him to sit down. But I liked him like this—trembling, unraveling, holding onto composure like it was the only thing he had left.

A few tears rolled down his cheek.. Slow. Silent. As if it snuck out before he could catch it and shove it back into whatever vault he keeps his real feelings in.

He won’t talk about it later.

He’ll just glare. Maybe punch my arm. Maybe accuse me of tricking him.

God, my wife was adorable.

I gulped it all, resulting in a horrifying expression on Luther’s face.

I couldn’t help but tease him.

"One minute man?"

"You said you’d bottom. That was not— f-ck."

"I don’t know what you mean, puppy. I let you push your hips into me. Deep. Raw."

"Shut up already!"

Of course, that event had nothing to do with Luther’s attitude the next week that followed.

You see, I thought that when he threatened me to be a mean wife, I would have fun. He would be bratty, I would be amused.

And everything will finally go well.

Well, as well as a relationship between a captive and the guy who cuts him open once a week and drains his blood every day would go.

But it seems like my wife was sneaky.

And smart.

I keep forgetting that my puppy was on the political scene. So he is a great manipulator.

Really impressive actually.

Let me present to you the start of my week.

"Hubby, I am starving."

Pause.

Silence.

Static.

My brain quite literally blue-screened. Full system failure. Smoke rising from my logic center.

Hubby.

Hubby.

I must’ve misheard. Or hallucinated. Maybe I was in a coma.

But no.

He said it again.

Under his breath this time. Muttered like it was nothing. "—hubby" this, "—hubby" that. Like he always says it. Like that’s just what I am to him now. Just his casual, everyday, emotionally-stable hubby.

What the hell.

He didn’t even look at me when he said it. Didn’t blush. Didn’t hesitate. Just splurt it out like it was the most normal thing he ever said.

I stared at him.

He didn’t notice.

Or worse—he did, and he was pretending not to. Which is peak Luther.

My mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again.

"Hubby?"

"Hmm?"

"You called me hubby."

"I did. You don’t like it? Would you prefer master?"

"I—"

He dragged his finger from my collarbone, on my chest, pressing it, pointing it.

I knew he was teasing me, but help me God—

I was teased.

"I am hungry."

Still catching my breath, my voice came out hoarse.

"What-what do you want to eat, puppy?"

"Chocolate cake."

"For breakfast? You’ll get sick."

"Aren’t you gonna be there to treat me, hubby?"

As the shock faded, I could finally see a clear image of Luther’s face.

Disgust.

Utter, undeniable disgust.

Concealed under some sweet, innocent facade. He was such a bad actor.

Guess he never needed to appeal like that before since he was always smart enough to use snarky comments and a manipulative strategy.

This is fun.

"Chocolate cake, huh? Anything else I can get for you?"

"Orange juice. Freshly squeezed."

"Cravings so early in the morning? Are we expecting a little Luther?"

His jaw tensed.

Oh, he’s pissed. But he still wants to put on the act.

Isn’t that adorable?

"How funny you are."

"No pet name this time? Did I upset you, puppy?"

I closed the gap between us in a breath, hand snapping up to grip his jaw. He froze, eyes narrowing a fraction, mouth still pulled into that fragile, unnatural smile. His skin was warm under my palm, his muscles tight like he was waiting for impact.

I tilted his face up, amused, watching that delicate revulsion flicker behind his eyes. He held it together, just barely, still trying to sell it. I didn’t let him.

I leaned in and kissed him, hard and without warning.

He hesitated.

Just long enough to make me grin against his mouth. Then he kissed back—mechanical at first, reluctant, like his body hadn’t agreed to it yet. His hands hovered, unsure, before one landed on my waist with the grace of a man doing something he couldn’t explain to himself.

I pressed in deeper, chasing that flicker of tension. His breath hitched. He let it happen.

And so starting with that kiss, my dear wife reluctantly accepted any and every act of affection I was ready to give him.

And I’ve given him just enough to keep him on edge—

Too much to be ignored.

Too little to be pleased.

Just enough to make him frustrated.

What I haven’t foreseen was Luther’s change in behavior that followed after just a few days of this loving wife act.

At the end of the day, he got me used to having my way just enough to take that away from me.

Instead of sweet, he was cold and mute and uninterested. No snarky comment. No sarcasm or disgust on his face.

Just pure ignorance of my existence.

The same actions that I had when I kept him in the white room. Showered him with affection just to leave him to go insane, starving after a few days.

He copied my strategy from when we first met and improved it.He knew I carried affection for him, hanging on every word and action, as well as he knew that I can’t do anythingto punish him given the frail state of his flower.I was too deep into his web of his hot-and-cold approach to be immune to it.

Just like that, a week later, me and my wife had our first true fight.

And it was all my fault.