Chapter 6 – After the Gala, the 3 a.m. Truth
The gala ended at 2:07 a.m.
By 2:41 a.m. Kael Valdemar was drunk.
Not stumbling, not slurring; Apex Alphas don't do that.
But drunk enough that his pupils were blown wide, drunk enough that the metallic edge of his scent had sharpened into something raw and bleeding, drunk enough that he had punched through a 12th-century stained-glass window in the west corridor when Leander tried to take the bottle from him.
I watched it all from the Eclipse Penthouse security feed, barefoot in silk pajamas, sipping warm milk like a good little Omega.
At 2:59 a.m. my private elevator chimed.
I didn't move from the couch.
The doors opened and Kael stepped out alone.
His tuxedo jacket was gone, white shirt unbuttoned to the sternum, red choker crooked for the first time in recorded history. There was blood on his knuckles and a shard of colored glass still stuck in his hair like a cruel crown.
He looked like ruin.
He looked like mine.
He saw me and stopped dead.
"Rui," he said. Just my name. Rough, cracked open.
I set the milk down and stood.
"You're bleeding," I whispered.
He looked at his hand like he hadn't noticed. "It's not mine."
I took one step toward him. Then another.
He watched me come, shoulders heaving, every muscle locked tight like he was holding back a tidal wave.
When I was close enough to feel the heat radiating off him, I reached up and carefully plucked the glass from his hair. A drop of his blood smeared across my thumb.
I brought it to my mouth and licked it clean.
His breath stopped entirely.
I smiled, soft and sweet. "Come sit down before you fall."
He let me take his hand (the bloody one) and lead him to the couch like a tamed warhead.
I pushed him gently until he sat. Then I knelt between his knees, rolled up his sleeve, and started cleaning the cuts with a warm cloth I had ready hours ago.
He watched me in silence, chest rising and falling too fast.
"You kissed Leander goodbye," he said suddenly.
I didn't look up from the wound. "He kissed my cheek. It's polite."
"You let him."
"I let you watch."
His unhurt hand shot out, fingers wrapping around my throat (not squeezing, just holding). The rose-gold choker pressed cold against my skin under his palm.
"Say it again," he growled.
I met his eyes. "I let you watch."
Something feral flashed across his face.
He yanked me up (not rough, desperate) until I was straddling his lap, knees sinking into the couch on either side of his hips. The silk pajamas rode up; his hands immediately clamped onto my bare thighs like he was afraid I'd vanish.
"Rui," he said again, like my name was the only word he still knew.
I cupped his face (both hands, gentle, thumbs brushing the bruise Leander had left on his jaw earlier when they argued).
"You're drunk," I whispered.
"Not enough to forget this."
He kissed me.
No warning, no hesitation (just his mouth crashing into mine like he'd been starving for years).
I opened for him instantly.
He tasted like the 1921 Macallan he'd been drowning in, like blood and cedar and the storm that lived under his skin. His tongue swept in, claiming, punishing, worshipping. One hand slid up my spine and fisted in my hair, arching my neck exactly where he wanted it.
I let him.
I let him devour my mouth until we were both shaking.
When he finally pulled back, his lips were swollen, eyes black, breath ragged.
"Tell me to stop," he rasped against my mouth. "Tell me and I'll leave right now."
I tangled my fingers in his hair and pulled him back in.
"Never," I breathed.
He groaned (broken, grateful) and kissed me again, slower this time, deeper. Like he was trying to memorize the taste of surrender.
His hands slipped under the silk pajama top, palms skating over my bare back, tracing the line of my spine like he was mapping territory.
I let my head fall back, exposing my throat.
His mouth followed instantly (teeth scraping over the rose-gold choker, tongue tracing the edge where metal met skin).
"Take it off," he growled against my pulse. "Want to mark you here. Want everyone to see."
I smiled into his hair.
"Not yet," I whispered. "Soon."
He made a frustrated sound and bit down (not hard enough to break skin, just enough to bruise). A claiming anyway.
I rocked my hips once, slow, deliberate.
He froze, then surged up, lifting me with him like I weighed nothing. My legs wrapped around his waist automatically.
"Bedroom," he snarled.
I pointed lazily toward the only lit door.
He carried me there in eight strides, kicked it shut behind us, and threw me onto the bed hard enough that I bounced.
I laughed (soft, delighted).
He crawled over me, shirt half torn open now, red choker glowing like a brand between us.
"Look at me," he ordered.
I did.
His eyes were wild, pupils blown so wide there was almost no gray left.
"I don't know what you are," he said, voice shaking with alcohol and truth. "But you're mine. You've always been mine. I don't care if I have to burn the fucking world down, you're mine."
I reached up, touched his cheek, and for once let something real slip into my voice.
"I know," I said. "I've been yours since I was fourteen."
He stared at me for a heartbeat (confused, wrecked).
Then he kissed me again, slower, reverent, like he was sealing a vow.
His hands slid the silk top up and off, baring me completely to the waist. His mouth followed (collarbones, chest, stomach), leaving bruises shaped like his desperation.
I arched into every touch, every bite, every whispered mine.
When his teeth grazed the edge of the choker again, I tangled my fingers in his hair and tugged until he looked up.
"Promise me," I said, soft as snowfall. "Promise you'll never take this off me."
He didn't even hesitate.
"Never," he swore, and sealed it with a kiss directly over the rose-gold band.
I smiled against his lips.
Phase three complete.
He would wake up tomorrow hungover and horrified, thinking he forced himself on the fragile Omega prince.
He would try to apologize, try to pull away, try to rebuild the walls.
And I would cry.
And he would break all over again.
I pulled him down on top of me, wrapped my legs around his waist, and whispered the last truth he would hear tonight:
"Stay until morning, Kael-senpai. I'm scared of the dark."
He buried his face in my neck, arms crushing me close, and stayed.
The monster in my chest purred so loudly I was surprised he didn't hear it.
Outside, the campus slept under frost and lies.
Inside, the untouchable king fell asleep wrapped around his ghost, drunk on vanilla and gunpowder, never noticing the faint metallic scent that clung to the sheets now (permanent, undeniable).
Never noticing that the black king chess piece was now sitting on my nightstand, right beside his discarded red choker clip he'd lost in the struggle.
I pressed a kiss to his temple and whispered into his hair:
"Goodnight, my king.
Dream of me.
You'll never escape again."