The phone Isidore was holding somehow fell, but he caught it, his gaze lowered into his palms. He didn't drop the call; he simply stared at the screen, the silence on the other end deafening.
Dead.
He couldn't believe it. He told himself it didn't matter, that he hated the man. But why was his chest aching? He clutched his chest, his cheeks were red, flushed with a sickening heat.
He couldn't understand these feelings; it was way too much. He hated him, so why did it hurt like that? And somehow he felt his eyes had gotten watery, glistening with moisture he vehemently denied.
He bit his lip hard enough to taste copper, focusing on the sharp, familiar pain to override the new, terrifying ache in his heart.
"He's a bastard," Isidore whispered into the dead line, the lie tasting bitter on his tongue. "Good riddance."
But the lie didn't hold. He knew it didn't. He swallowed the raw lump in his throat and slammed the phone back onto the nightstand, refusing to look at it, refusing to acknowledge the devastation wreaking havoc inside him.
"This is ridiculous," he muttered, pacing the room in tight, agitated circles. "I need fresh air. I need a distraction."
Hallway Interruption
Outside Isidore's room, Maurice had barely kept up his rigid pace as he walked away, bristling with the stress of his interrupted examination.
But again, he was stopped.
He felt a hand clamp lightly, yet firmly, onto his elbow.
Maurice gasped, his spine snapping straight. He looked over to find Leon, grinning—that infuriatingly handsome, annoyingly casual grin that made Maurice's internal organs seize up.
Maurice tried to ignore him, attempting to pull away, but Leon made a sound—"Tch"—as he grabbed Maurice's elbow more securely.
"You bastard! Let—let go of me!" Maurice barked, but his voice was thin, and his face was betrayingly flushed.
Leon moved in, pressing Maurice back against the wall of the quiet, carpeted hallway. "Ohh, really? But how am I supposed to, when I haven't even said hello properly?"
Maurice's jaw worked. "What do you think you're doing? We are in the hallway! If anyone saw us—"
Leon leaned in, his voice dropping to a low, intimate rumble that vibrated against Maurice's ear. "Well, Mr. Doctor, it's just been a day, and I felt like I wasn't satisfied enough."
Maurice hissed, his breath catching in his throat. "What do you mean?"
Leon slowly lifted his head, those mismatched, predatory eyes locking onto Maurice's indignant, flustered ones.
"What could that mean?" he asked, tilting his head with mock innocence. "I want to spend more time with you."
Maurice felt something tickle deep inside him. Leon's touch, his proximity, was something.
ah—
He stopped the thought dead. Stop even thinking because Leon... was exactly the kind of reckless, unprofessional disaster Maurice's orderly life despised—and secretly craved.
The moment Maurice felt the warmth of Leon's body pressing against him, the rigid control he cultivated shattered. He felt that insidious, delightful tickle again, only this time, it intensified as Leon smoothly moved closer, leaning in.
Leon didn't kiss him—not yet. He pressed his lips to the sensitive curve of Maurice's neck, a slow, deliberate nibble that sent a shockwave straight to the doctor's spine.
"Stop that! Leon!" Maurice protested, his voice a strained, high-pitched plea, entirely devoid of his usual clinical authority.
Leon ignored the protest, his breath warm and moist against Maurice's skin, a dangerously tantalizing counterpoint to the doctor's rising panic. He deliberately pushed his fingertips under the fine fabric of Maurice's shirt, tracing the sensitive ridge of his lower ribs.
Maurice choked, the pressure unbearable, a delightful assault on his senses. He tried to push Leon away, shoving hard against the man's broad chest. "Enough!"
Leon finally drew back, his eyes alight with a possessive, golden fire. He moved close again, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial whisper right into Maurice's ear.
"Can't we do it again?"
Maurice's heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped, panicked bird. His face flushed a deep, undeniable scarlet, visible even under the hallway's dim lighting. "You don't have any idea what you're talking about!"
Leon traced his fingertips lightly, languidly, down the very center of Maurice's spine, sending an involuntary shiver of pure, raw sensation coursing through the doctor.
"Mr. Doctor," Leon murmured, his gaze intense, capturing Maurice entirely. "I think I've fallen in love."
Maurice's bright green eyes snapped upward, locking onto Leon's. The words, so brazenly spoken, stole the last of Maurice's air. He pushed again, this time with desperate force. Leon staggered back a step, startled by the doctor's sudden, violent rejection.
"Stop toying with me!" Maurice spat, humiliation and desire warring on his exquisite features.
Leon's expression darkened, the easy amusement fading into a genuine frown. He immediately stepped one firm, decisive step closer, closing the distance Maurice had desperately tried to create.
"But it is true," Leon insisted, his voice surprisingly raw. "I never truly felt anything like this before. I never touched an Omega nor an Alpha with... intent."
"I don't care!" Maurice hissed, crossing his arms over his chest, shielding himself.
"You care."
Maurice shook his head violently, but the undeniable, tell-tale blush on his face was his own treacherous betrayer.
Leon's hand lifted again, hovering near Maurice's cheek, a promise of warmth and gentle possession. "I won't disappoint you this time."
"I said I don't want to!" Maurice barked, a desperate, final stand against the overwhelming pull.
"But—" Leon began, only to be abruptly interrupted.
The door to Isidore's room was thrown open, and Isidore himself emerged, clad in a long, flowing coat, his face pallid but fiercely determined.
He turned his head sharply, catching sight of the tense tableau of Maurice and Leon.
"Leon," Isidore's voice was sharp, laced with cold urgency. "Drive me to the hospital. Immediately."
Leon, with the instantaneous recovery of a seasoned operative, straightened entirely. All traces of flirtation vanished, replaced by crisp professionalism. He nodded, entirely composed.
"Just as you say, Mr. Isidore."
Leon moved past Maurice without a single backward glance, the sudden withdrawal of his attention leaving a gaping, cold void. He followed Isidore toward the door.
Maurice stood frozen long after Leon disappeared around the corner.
The hallway felt too wide, too quiet, too bright — as if the world had tilted slightly out of alignment the moment Leon's body heat left his.
He exhaled sharply.
"…Ridiculous," he muttered.
He reached up to adjust his glasses, but his fingers wouldn't stop trembling.
A tiny, traitorous blush crept up his neck, blooming under his collar like a dangerous little secret.
"I told him to rest," Maurice whispered to himself, frowning as if scolding a child. "I explicitly told him to rest. What is he."
He took two steps, stopped, turned, then paced back the other way like a man losing an argument with his own shadow.
"But—" his voice dropped to a softer murmur, "he said he'd wait."
Maurice's blush deepened.
"Hmph." He straightened his coat, squared his shoulders, and lifted his chin with a scholar's stubborn pride. "Fine. If he wants proof, I'll… I'll show him."
He began walking again, each step more determined than the last.
"Let's see," he murmured, eyes sharp behind his lenses, "if that bold beta can actually satisfy me."
His lips twitched — not quite a smile, not quite a smirk, but something dangerously close.
"And this time," Maurice muttered, voice low and steady, "we do it my way."
He pushed his glasses up with a final decisive click.
Maurice-style.
Precise.
Calculated.
And just a little bit wicked.
The Hospital Masquerade
Meanwhile, in the hospital room, the simmering tension between the two attendants—and the principal patient—was a thick, noxious miasma.
Joshua was relentlessly baiting Zayn, his every syllable designed to inflict maximum psychological damage.
Zayn wanted nothing more than to smash his fist into that infuriatingly handsome face. He was worried sick about Isidore, who still wasn't picking up his calls, and yet Joshua had the audacity to act like this.
Tristan, thankfully, wasn't paying attention to either of them. He was thinking only of his Isidore—his pure, angry Omega—who was refusing to acknowledge his calls.
I need to make myself look more authentically dead, Tristan mused with utterly theatrical dedication.
I need to make myself look more authentically dead, Tristan mused with utterly theatrical dedication.
He lifted his hand, catching the reflection of his face in the convex surface of a stainless-steel spoon.
"Maverick," Tristan drawled, his voice a low, injured murmur. "Am I pale?"
Zayn's expression was bone-tired. He looked like he was suffering from acute Ashford Overload and couldn't stand the presence of either brother for another second. He merely shook his head, too exhausted for a coherent answer.
Tristan sighed dramatically. "Well, I am pale, but I need to look handsomely pale, like a tragic Romantic hero, not some common dead pale."
Zayn felt a deep, agonizing twitch in his facial muscles. "People get pale because they lose blood and are in severe pain," he stated flatly, his voice devoid of any pity.
"Of course," Tristan said, dragging a restless hand through his naturally tousled red hair. "Just like me. But I want a deadly handsome pale. Something that screams, 'Isidore, I almost died, come console me.'"
Zayn let out a long, weary sigh. "Look, Mr. Ashford, because of your idiotic scheme, Davenant isn't picking up. You've genuinely terrified him."
Tristan leaned back against the pillow with an air of absolute, unshakeable confidence. "Joy, be patient, Maverick. I know he is worried about me."
"Tch. What a shame," Joshua chimed in, snatching an apple from the fruit bowl with theatrical flair.
"The only shame here is you," Zayn snapped, his voice sharp with frustration.
Joshua completely ignored the insult. He bit the apple, but not in a simple, casual manner.
He first licked the smooth, curved skin of the fruit, his tongue a deliberate, leisurely slice across the apple's surface, back and forth. It was an act of pure, calculated provocation.
Zayn's lilac eyes widened momentarily, an involuntary, unguarded reaction.
"Shameless," Zayn muttered, but a faint, unreasonable flush crept across his cheeks from witnessing Joshua's blatantly suggestive action.
Joshua's smirk deepened, that audacious, confident curve. "I like to treat things carefully first," he said, his voice a low, suggestive purr.
Zayn whipped his head away sharply, refusing to meet the other Alpha's gaze.
"Especially when they're my favorite," Joshua finished, the unspoken implication hanging thick and heavy in the sterile air.
Zayn felt a burst of impotent rage.
He was an Alpha—a highly capable, disciplined operative—and yet another Alpha dared to humiliate him with such blatant, casual seduction. His lilac eyes narrowed to furious slits, shimmering with humiliation and contained aggression.
He couldn't stand it. He had to leave.
Just as Zayn opened his mouth to make his hasty exit, the sudden, violent sound of the door smashing against the wall ripped through the room.
The Dragon Arrives
The subsequent silence was profound, broken only by the sound of heavy, labored breathing.
In the doorway stood Isidore.
He looked like a beautiful, tragic storm. His hair was windblown, his chest heaving, his face drained of all color. He was clutching Julian against his hip with a grip so tight his knuckles were white.
He looked around the room wild-eyed, expecting a white sheet, a flatline, a grieving silence.
Instead, he saw Joshua chewing a pear.
He saw Zayn looking guilty.
And he saw Tristan.
Tristan, sitting up in bed, holding a spoon, looking very much alive, very pink-cheeked, and currently freezing like a deer caught in headlights.
The silence that followed was heavy. Heavy and terrible.
Isidore stared.
He blinked once. Twice.
His brain tried to compute the data. Not dead. Alive.
Slowly, very slowly, Isidore lowered Julian to the floor.
Julian, happy to be free, immediately spotted the bed. "Hero!" he squealed, toddling forward.
But Isidore didn't move. He stood frozen, the panic in his veins curdling instantly into a cold, volcanic rage.
Tristan offered a terrified, guilt-ridden smile. "Surprise?"
Isidore's voice was a low, shaking whisper, far more dangerous than a scream.
"You're alive?"