Neville's eyes widened in shock and fury. He tried to pull away, but Killian's grip was surprisingly strong for a beta. Making a scene would only make things worse.
"Excellent!" Mick's twisted expression smoothed back into a smile. "We leave at 6 PM sharp. I'll provide your suit for tonight—you don't need to trouble yourself. Don't be late, Hope."
Mick turned on his heel and strode away, clearly satisfied with the outcome. Killian held Neville a moment longer—just long enough to ensure Mick was out of earshot—before finally letting go, shoving Neville's face aside with a quick, dismissive gesture.
"Who said I'm going?" Neville's words were sharp and defiant as he anchored himself to the desk. "Go if you want to."
Killian's lips curled into a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"Aren't you here as Maxwell Corporation's representative? Unless…" his voice dipped, taunting, "you want me to report to Mr. Maxwell just how uncooperative you've been?"
The mention of Grayson sent a different kind of panic through Neville. The last thing he needed was for his boss, his target, to think he was incompetent.
"You really should be more grateful," Killian continued, his tone was warm, but his gaze was threatening. "Not everyone gets invited to events like this, especially by Mr. Hewitt. Someone from your... background... ought to know better than to refuse."
"So what? I already said I won't go." Neville's voice came through gritted teeth, firm despite the tremor beneath.
Killian cracked his neck from side to side before stepping closer. He grabbed Neville's collar as his hand closed around Neville's throat—not tight, not yet, but rested there to make a suffocating threat.
"Listen up, you stupid little omega." His voice dropped, low and lethal, as alpha pheromones bled into the office. The invisible pressure was overwhelming, spreading fast, enhancing the suffocating feeling, making his legs weak. "If the young master wants you there, you should be there. Don't think too highly of yourself."
Neville's breath caught, panic clawing at his chest, but his eyes still burned with defiance. "Who are you to decide that?"
A harsh, scoffing laugh escaped Killian's throat. His expression twisted with rage—and inexplicable jealousy. His grip suddenly tightened up, cutting off Neville's air just long enough to send real fear down his spine.
As he struggled, a cold realization washed over him. It wasn't some broken perfume bottle that he was smelling—it was pheromones. Heavy, raw, aggressive pheromones.
Despite how he was acting, Killian wasn't a beta at all. He was an alpha all along—a dominant one at that. And Neville's body—which was already fragile from being forced to mimic a recessive omega—was reacting horribly to the sudden, aggressive invasion, an assault of unfamiliar pheromones that weren't Grayson's.
"Who are you playing hard to get for?"Killian's voice dropped to a menacing whisper. His fingers pressed hard against Neville's windpipe—not enough to leave marks, but enough to make every breath a conscious, humiliating effort. "All it takes is a wag of your ass and he'll take you. Just remember to be grateful. Are we clear?"
Neville ignored Killian as his hands flew up, frantically clawing at the iron grip around his throat.
It was useless. This was a clear display of the raw difference in strength between an alpha and an omega.
He could overpower Killian—after all, his own pheromones weren't weak; they were dominant, extremely dominant at that. But they were untrained, bottled up inside him like a blade he didn't know how to draw.
His mermaid strength was dulled in this human form. Like slashing a forged iron sword with the sharpest knife in the world: no matter how sharp it was, it left no dent.
His lungs began to burn, black spots dotting the edges of his vision. Pride warred with survival instinct. In the end, biology won.
Neville nodded—jerky, desperate, the only surrender his body could manage to express.
Killian kept him there, one heartbeat, two, three. Long enough to instill his point into Neville's bones. Then he shoved him away with brutal ease, sending Neville stumbling into a shelf. Metal rattled, and Neville's hip struck the corner hard enough to guarantee another set of bruises.
Then, something small and white flew his way. Neville barely managed to catch it—a small tube of medical salve. It was the expensive kind that could heal bruises in hours.
"Use it immediately. I don't want to see marks on your body." Killian smoothed his tie back into place, his professional mask sliding back into place with practiced ease. "The young master doesn't like damaged goods served at his table."
The words hit Neville like a physical blow.
Damaged goods. As if he were nothing more than a product, a pretty ornament to be displayed for some spoiled rich boy's amusement.
Neville's jaw clenched until it ached; he seemed to briefly taste rust. He forced himself to nod meekly, swallowing the bile of his pride. His trembling fingers closed around the tube of salve.
Killian's lips curved, satisfied. "I'll go now. The young master doesn't like to be kept waiting."
Without another glance, he turned on his heel and strode out. His shoes clicked against the polished floor, the echo of his steps fading as he hurried to catch up to his young master.
The door clicked shut, and the room fell silent, leaving Neville alone in the vast office. The room was still reeking with thick pheromones and utter despair.
Neville sank to the floor, heavy, sluggish, and trembling. One hand rose to his throat, rubbing at the tender skin where Killian's grip had branded its phantom shape. His breath hitched with each touch. His other hand curled into a fist, knuckles bone-white.
A shimmer of pink light flickered beside him, and Shelly appeared. Her pearly shell body vibrated as her animated eyes widened with worry. The usual mischief in her expression was nowhere to be found.
[Host…Host…] Her voice was soft, small, almost breaking into a sob.
A broken, bitter laugh bubbled up from Neville's chest. It caught against his bruised throat and cracked into something closer to a sob.
"This world is really unfair…" His whisper rasped like grounded glass, barely audible, but enough to break the silence.
[Host, that's...] Shelly floated closer, her glow dim and unsteady, as if she could soothe him by just floating nearby.
"The system just won't let me take a break," Neville murmured, reaching down to retrieve the cream. His movements were mechanical, each motion betraying the tremor in his hands. The cap slipped once before he forced it open.
[Host, it's not the system,] Shelly said, an unusual note of seriousness in her voice.
"Then what is it?" His voice broke on the last word, the sound raw and sharp, filling the empty office like a cry that went unanswered.
[Remember you're 24 back in your world?] Shelly said softly, circling in a worried loop.
Neville paused, the cream half-spread across his neck, and looked at her with hollow eyes. The cool gel burned against his skin, but the sting was far more tolerable than the ache in his chest.
[Your current body is only 20 years old,] Shelly explained, her animated eyes turned serious. [It's hard to assimilate into a younger body. Your mind and body would be in constant disagreement until you reach a certain percentage of favorability.]
The words sank in like stones.
"Favorability… huh," Neville muttered, the bitterness curling around the syllables.
His mind was shaped by 24 years of experience and maturity. But his body was younger, more impulsive, and more susceptible to the hormonal storms that came with being an omega.
"Still that damn favorability," he spat, his voice thick with anger.
No wonder he felt like he was being torn apart. No wonder simple interactions left him completely drained. He hadn't anticipated this kind of disconnect between his mind and body, this weakness.
Neville snorted, the sound devoid of humor. "So what—are you telling me that I'm too old for this shit?"
Shelly puffed up, scrunched up in a pout, her little shell spinning indignantly in the air as if to ignore his comment. [You could ask the target for help. He can protect you. He probably wouldn't refuse to help either if you asked.]
Neville's hand froze, cream half-smoothed across his skin. He could perfectly imagine how that scene would unfold: walking into Grayson's office, confessing everything that Mick and Killian had done—maybe his speculations about Ethan too, and the fury that would build up in those silver eyes.
It would be so easy. Too easy.
A single tear escaped before he could stop it, trailing hot down his cheek, glinting before it darkened his shirt.
"He can," Neville admitted, his voice low but steadying. "He can help."
"But that won't do." Resolve crept in, solidifying his words. "I have to fight my own battles."
Grayson Maxwell wasn't just a CEO. He was a general who had commanded armies, who carved respect from blood, strength, and strategy. To earn his respect, to raise his favorability without sleeping with him, Neville couldn't cower behind him every time he was cornered—to which he assumed would happen more in the future as they approached the original timeline of the original story.
He needed to stand tall on his own.
Not a victim. Not a pretty ornament.
He had to be his soldier in his own right.
A dangerous light entered his tear-filled eyes. "...And I will."
…
Iris was making her rounds through the department when she spotted Neville heading for the anti-grav lift. Something about his expression made her pause. He carried himself too stiffly, his expression too carefully managed, which didn't sit right.
As the lift's light illuminated Neville's face, it revealed what he had tried to hide. A faint discoloration on his neck coated with what seemed to be cream. The subtle, painful way he carried himself, like an injured man.
The moment this thought crossed her mind, Iris hurriedly caught up with Neville, yelling out, "HO—"
But the doors slid shut with a soft hiss before she reached him, cutting her off.
For a moment, she stood frozen, her face tight with frustration. Then her face hardened. Spinning on her heel, she strode toward the executive office.