Lunch at the Mastersons was a lavish affair, but Damien couldn't have cared less about the silverware or the gourmet dishes. His eyes kept drifting—no, pulling—toward Alex. Every time he glanced at him, the pit in his stomach grew heavier. Alex looked... awful. Pale, fragile, distant—like a ghost trying to remember how to be human.
And then it happened.
Alex bent his head forward for just a second—reaching for a glass, maybe—and Damien's gaze caught on the back of his neck. A bandage peeked out from beneath the collar of his sweater, stained deep red. Soaked. Damien's heart skipped a beat.
Why the hell is it still bleeding? The bite. That damned bite. How could it still be open? Still leaking blood?
His mind raced with questions, but what unnerved him most was how no one else at the table seemed so oblivious. The Mastersons carried on with their shallow smiles and idle chatter, acting like everything was perfectly normal.
Wasn't he their precious youngest son?
The longer Damien sat there, the more unbearable it became. Every cell in his body screamed that something wasn't right in this house. And before he even realized what he was doing, the words left his mouth:
"I've decided to stay here."
The room went silent.
Even he couldn't fully believe what he'd just said. The very idea of living under the same roof with these poisonous, smiling snakes made him want to gag. But he needed to stay close. He needed to understand what the hell was going on with Alex—and what kind of twisted dynamics held this family together.
Unsurprisingly, the Mastersons didn't look thrilled by the idea, but they agreed. With tight smiles and veiled annoyance, they informed him that the only guest room available was in the same wing as Alex's.
Damien nearly smirked. Perfect.
Alex had already excused himself from the table by then, too unwell to linger. He wouldn't know about the new sleeping arrangement yet. Guided by one of the maids, Damien followed through the quiet, over decorated hallways to his new room. Once they reached the door, he dismissed her with a nod.
But instead of going inside, he turned and knocked on Alex's door.
No response. He knocked again. Then again. Still nothing.
Frustration bubbled up in his chest, laced with worry. He jiggled the doorknob—locked. So he kept knocking, louder now, until finally the door creaked open.
Alex stood there, barely.
His face was ashen. If he had looked bad during lunch, now he looked worse—like something was draining the life out of him by the hour.
That's it, Damien thought, his jaw clenching. I'm taking him to a doctor. Because no one else in this godforsaken house seems to give a damn.
He told Alex to be ready the next morning—his driver would pick him up, no questions asked.
But Alex misunderstood. Of course he did.
The words he spoke to Damien stung, sharp and bitter. But Damien didn't flinch. He had no right to. Not after the way he'd treated Alex. Not after the venom he'd spat at him when Alex had only ever been good to him.
He didn't respond—he just turned around and walked away.
Once outside the Mastersons' villa, Damien pulled out his phone and made a call.
"Silvy," he said when the line picked up, "I need a favor."
Silvia Addison had been his oldest friend, a beta girl with sharp wit and kind eyes. They'd met at the orphanage when he was ten. Even after he was adopted, he'd made sure—with Sandbrook's help—that Silvy found a good home too. They kept in touch. Trusted each other.
"I need to book an appointment for a beta male. First thing tomorrow morning."
"Alright," she replied, professional but curious. "Full name? Age? Medical history?"
"I'll email everything I have. Just make sure he's your first patient."
There was a pause on the line. "Okay… but, Damien, who is this guy? You sound… concerned."
Damien hesitated. "Concerned?" he echoed with a hollow laugh. "I'm not concerned. He's just… someone I know."
"Right. Got it," Silvy said softly, knowing better than to press.
That night, Damien didn't sleep.
He lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, every muscle tense in his body. He should've felt triumphant. Alex's condition should've been proof that his plan for revenge against the Mastersons was working. That their were slowly paying for their sins.
But all he felt was dread. Regret. And this terrible sense that somewhere along the way, he'd crossed a line he didn't even see. And Alex was paying the price.
****************************************************************************************
Morning arrived with grueling slowness. Damien's stomach was tight with nerves as he pulled up to the hotel to collect Alex. Just like the day before, Alex assumed Damien was there because of that arrangement. That cursed, humiliating arrangement. Damien inwardly cringed, the memory of his own words—*"let's just be fuck buddies"—*echoing like poison in his mind. Damien told him that no, he had called Alex for a doctor's appointment.
Alex, of course, refused the idea of seeing a doctor. He bristled, trying to pull away, throwing Damien a glare that should have cut through steel. But Damien was done taking no for an answer. He stepped forward, lifted Alex into his arms, and carried him to the car.
He was shocked.
Alex felt... light. Too light. Like something brittle masquerading as flesh. And though Alex struggled, it was weak—unconvincing. Within seconds, he was breathless, his face chalk-pale and lips tinged blue. Damien's grip tightened instinctively.
When they arrived at the clinic, Damien gave Alex his space and stayed behind in the waiting room.
The hours dragged on. Endless, suffocating. Damien paced the sterile hallway like a prisoner. Every tick of the clock echoed like thunder. Why was it taking so long? What the hell was going on in there?
Finally, sometime past eleven, Silvy emerged, her expression unreadable.
Damien surged to his feet and strode toward her. "How is he?" he asked, voice tight with anxiety.
Silvy didn't smile. She didn't soften.
Her eyes were sharp as broken glass. "Not dead by a miracle."
Damien flinched. "Silvy, please—just tell me—"
She raised a hand, silencing him with the authority of someone who'd spent years mastering both compassion and boundaries. "Stop. If you brought him here expecting me to spill his medical details, think again. I'm a doctor before I'm your friend, Damien."
He froze, the rebuke stinging.
"All I can tell you," she continued, her voice clipped, "is that he's in a dangerously fragile state. He's severely anemic, dehydrated, and showing signs of prolonged stress and neglect. I'll be keeping him here for at least three days under observation. Do not try to contact him. Let him rest."
Damien stared at her, his world tilting sideways. "He's… that bad?"
Silvy's eyes narrowed. "Yes. And you should be asking yourself why no one noticed before now."
A knot tightened in his gut. Guilt pressed down on his chest like a weight.
"Should I take him to a bigger hospital?" he asked quietly, almost desperately.
"There's no need," she said. "My clinic may be small, but we're fully equipped for urgent care. He's staying here, and he'll be safe. For now."
She turned as if to leave, but then paused—her voice lowering, tone edged with something harder, something personal.
"I saw his last name," she said flatly. "And knowing your history with the Mastersons, I can only hope to hell that boy isn't a pawn in whatever revenge fantasy you've got brewing."
With that, she turned on her heel and walked away.
Damien stood frozen, stunned by the force of her words. His throat felt tight. He stumbled to a nearby chair and sat down, dragging his hands through his hair.
Silvy's accusations cut deep because they were true.
He had included Alex in his revenge plan. Willingly, knowingly. He'd let bitterness guide his every move. And now… now it was too late to take any of it back.
He remembered the way Alex had looked at him that night in his office—hurt, betrayed, angry.
Would he ever forgive him?
No.
Even if Damien laid bare every secret, every motive—explained his hatred for the Mastersons and the reasons behind it—none of it would erase what he'd done.
He had already crossed a line that could not be uncrossed.