Benedict's voice trailed into silence, but his eyes did not leave Christian's broken form at his feet. The sight of him, trembling, too stubborn to weep, pulled something far older than the moment to the surface.
Memory struck like a shard of glass.
Another life. Another ending.
Christian had ruined everything then, too. Benedict remembered it with vicious clarity: Lucas, already thin and worn, paraded like an asset while Christian calculated debts and leverage with cold precision. The omega's body had been forced into heat again and again, milked for profit, until nothing remained but a shell.
And then, death. Alone. Forgotten. Lucas had been left to collapse into silence while Christian clawed at the scraps of money he had recovered. By the time Benedict had reached him, there had been no one left to save. No warm breath. No bright eyes. Only the echo of what might have been his.
His.
