Alex could barely move the next morning. Every inch of his body ached as if he had been trampled on, his muscles throbbing with the deep, punishing soreness of overuse. But none of it compared to the searing agony radiating from the wound on his neck. The bite throbbed in sync with his pulse, raw and inflamed.
A suffocating heat clung to him, his entire body feverish and drenched in sweat, yet he shivered uncontrollably. Nausea churned in his stomach, and the moment he cracked his eyes open, the world tilted violently. His surroundings blurred and twisted, making it impossible to focus. He forced himself to sit up, but the moment he tried to swing his legs over the edge of the bed, his knees buckled beneath him. He crumpled to the floor with a weak gasp, limbs shaking, utterly drained of strength.
That fucking bastard.
The thought hissed through his mind, sharp and bitter. Damien had been relentless last night, his touch unyielding, his presence overwhelming. But even as anger flared inside him, another thought surfaced—he had acted strangely too. Something about his own reaction hadn't been right. He had lost control, drowned in a haze of heat and desperation, his body betraying him in ways he didn't understand.
Maybe it was the suppressants.
The doctor had warned him about the side effects. The pills were designed to suppress his omega traits, to keep him functioning as a beta, but they came at a cost. Over time, the side effects would intensify, ravaging his body from the inside out. And judging by the way he felt now, it seemed the doctor had been right.
Not that it mattered.
What mattered was that he felt like absolute hell.
With great effort, he dragged himself back onto the bed, his movements sluggish, limbs trembling. He fumbled blindly with the nightstand drawer until his fingers closed around the fever medication. He swallowed one dry before reaching for the suppressants. He hesitated only a second before forcing those down as well. Taking pills on an empty stomach was a terrible idea, but the thought of walking to the kitchen felt impossible. His body was too weak, his vision too unsteady.
He curled back under the covers, hoping sleep would grant him some relief.
But there was no peace in his rest. His sleep was restless, plagued by feverish nightmares that tangled around him like suffocating vines. When he finally surfaced from the darkness, it was nearly noon, and his vision was dangerously blurry. His body protested as he staggered to his feet, but he managed to reach the door and stick his head out into the hallway.
By some stroke of luck, a maid was passing by.
His voice was hoarse as he called out to her. "Bring me something to eat. And from now on… just leave all three meals outside my door."
The woman nodded without argument and disappeared down the hall.
When the food arrived, Alex forced himself to eat, hoping it would help. But the moment the food settled in his stomach, it lurched violently back up. He barely made it to the bathroom before he was on his knees, vomiting everything he had just swallowed.
And that was only the beginning.
The following days were a waking nightmare.
No matter what he ate, his body rejected it. At some point, it felt like he was throwing up more than he had consumed, as if his body was actively trying to rid itself of something unseen. The fever never truly broke. He either burned so hot it felt like his skin was melting or he shivered so violently his teeth chattered. His head pounded mercilessly, a constant drumbeat of pain, while his body ached as though he had been torn apart and stitched back together wrong.
And the bite.
The damn bite refused to heal. The wound remained open, raw and weeping, the skin around it unnaturally red and irritated. It should have started scabbing over by now, but it didn't. Every time he thought it might finally begin to heal, fresh blood stained his collar, soaking into the fabric like a quiet reminder that something was very, very wrong.
And, of course, no one came to check on him.
Because no one cared.
The house staff ignored him unless he explicitly called for them, treating him with the same detached efficiency as always. Their job was to clean, to maintain order, to cater to the Mastersons—but not to him. As long as he didn't make a request, they acted as though he didn't exist.
It was an unspoken rule in this house.
Ignore Alex. Even if he looks like he might drop dead at any moment.
Sometimes, in the quiet hours of the night, when the fever blurred the lines between waking and dreaming, he wondered if his parents would have preferred him dead.
By noon on the third day, there was a sharp knock against Alex's bedroom door.
"Young master, Mr. Sandbrook is here for lunch, and he insists you join him," the maid's voice came muffled through the wood.
Alex groaned into his pillow. "Tell them I can't," he muttered, his voice hoarse from days of fever and vomiting.
A brief pause, then the maid replied, her tone carefully neutral. "Mr. Sandbrook will not take no for an answer. Your father reminds you that Mr. Sandbrook is someone you should… aim to please."
Aim to please.
Alex almost laughed, the words so absurd they nearly sent him into a coughing fit. Had Damien not been pleased enough after tearing into him, after fucking him raw and leaving him like this?
For a fleeting moment, he considered refusing again. But he knew better. If he didn't show up, his father would drag him out of this room himself.
"Fine," he snapped, dragging himself upright. "I'll be there."
His body protested as he forced himself out of bed. His limbs felt heavy, weighed down by exhaustion, but he ignored it. He fumbled through his dresser, pulling out a turtleneck sweater and a pair of jeans. The high collar would conceal the wound on his neck—that damn thing still bled.
Sliding into his jeans, Alex paused.
Something was wrong.
The fabric slipped past his hips, hanging loose around his waist. He stared down, stunned. Too big?
"What the fuck…" he muttered under his breath, running a hand over his stomach. Did I really lose that much weight?
Sure, he'd been throwing up everything he ate and burning up with fever. But in just three days? He reached for a belt, tightening it more than usual, then pulled the sweater over his head. His body still felt unsteady, and a strange, uncomfortable tug gnawed at his stomach—something deeper than hunger, something… wrong.
He shoved the thought aside and made his way to the dining room.
As soon as he stepped inside, his stomach sank.
His family, dressed to perfection, sat around the grand table as if posing for a magazine spread. His mother, her pearl necklace gleaming under the noon sun, flicked a disapproving gaze over his outfit.
Ah, shit. Here it comes.
"You could have made an effort, Alexander," she sighed, shaking her head. "A lunch with Mr. Sandbrook is hardly the occasion for… casual wear."
Alex forced a weak smile, masking the exhaustion dragging at him. "Sorry, Mother, I was in a rush."
He turned to find a seat, but he could feel it—the weight of Damien's gaze, dark and unrelenting, tracking his every movement.
"Hello, Mr. Sandbrook," Alex said at last, his voice flat, his expression carefully neutral. "How lovely to have you for lunch." Not a single ounce of warmth in his tone. No smile.
Damien didn't react to the coldness in his voice. Instead, he gestured to the seat beside him.
"Sit here." His tone left no room for argument.
Alex's stomach clenched. His sister, Elena, was already seated there.
"I'm sure Ms. Elena won't mind giving up her seat for her little brother," Damien added smoothly.
Elena, ever the perfect daughter, gave a saccharine smile and stood. "Of course," she said, her voice as polished as her diamond earrings. She gracefully moved to sit beside their mother, while Alex hesitated for a fraction of a second before sinking into the seat next to Damien.
He was too tired to try and figure out what game Damien was playing.
The conversation at the table droned on—his father launching into a long-winded discussion about the family business. Apparently, profits were down, customers were unhappy with the recent price hikes, and investors were getting skittish. Alex barely listened. He had long stopped caring about the Masterson empire.
He was just grateful that, for once, the topic of his potential use to the family hadn't come up. His parents had once entertained the idea of him seducing Damien, of leveraging his omega status to secure a tighter grip on Sandbrook's control. But that ship had sailed. Damien had already taken what he wanted. Alex had been the one seduced, used, and discarded. If his parents knew the truth, they'd probably have a collective aneurysm.
Food arrived, and the moment the scent of onions hit Alex's nose, his stomach flipped violently. He bit his lip, swallowing back the nausea. He managed a sip of water. No good. His throat tightened, rejecting it instantly.
He knew Damien was watching him.
Even though the man didn't make it obvious, Alex felt it. The sharp, silent scrutiny.
The next dish was served, and Alex forced himself to take a few bites, chewing mechanically. His stomach rebelled, but he kept his expression unreadable, braving through the meal. Somehow, he managed to last until coffee and dessert were being prepared.
And then Damien dropped a bomb.
"Considering you used this house as collateral for one of the loans I gave you," Damien said, his voice casual, as if discussing the weather, "I'm thinking of moving in."
A beat of silence.
Alex's head snapped toward him, his blood turning to ice.
What.
"I know it's not technically mine… yet." Damien emphasized the last word, his lips curving slightly, as if savoring the inevitability of it. "But I'm sure you can make an exception."
The room went deathly still.
His mother's teacup clicked against its saucer. His father's jaw tensed, but he remained eerily composed. Elena, ever the picture of grace, merely folded her hands in her lap, though her fingers were pressed together a little too tightly.
Alex, however, couldn't mask his reaction.
He gaped at Damien, disbelief crashing through him.
Is this bastard for real?!