Louis' POV
After a long journey, I finally arrived in Elhurst City.
The air here always smelled like ambition — metallic, electric, and sharp. It wasn't like Gloria, my home city, where the rhythm of life was gentle, dignified. Gloria had been named after the legendary Alpha Gloria Daven, the woman who changed history by fighting for Omega rights. My family had lived there for generations — nobles among nobles.
Elhurst, though… Elhurst was something else. It was chaos and brilliance stitched together. A city of entrepreneurs and criminals, where luxury towers shadowed an entire underground world. A world that belonged to me.
I wasn't just Louis in Elhurst. Here, I was the King of the Underground — the man who took his father's empire and turned it into something unshakable.
I'd flown in wearing a black suit and navy coat, the kind of look that made people move out of your way without knowing why. My assistant, Bill, was already waiting with a tablet in hand.
"Your meeting with the foreign investors has been moved to noon tomorrow, sir," Bill said as he led me to the car.
I nodded distractedly, my mind already on the long list of obligations waiting for me. Everything was neat, planned — predictable. Until my phone buzzed the next morning.
Alistair.
I smiled faintly when I saw his name. He called often — usually to check in, to tease, or to complain about how empty the house felt without me. But his voice this time was… off. Unsteady.
"Louis," he said, breathing a little too fast. "It's about Charles."
My smile faded instantly. "What about him?"
"He's not himself," Alistair said quickly. "He hasn't eaten since yesterday. He looked like he hadn't slept all night — his eyes were swollen, like he'd been crying. And this morning… he snapped."
My pulse spiked. "Snapped?"
"He—" Alistair hesitated, his voice cracking slightly. "He yelled at me, Louis. His pheromones were… overwhelming. I couldn't breathe. I've never seen him like that. It was like something inside him broke. I tried to help, but he— he told me to leave."
For a second, I couldn't speak. The quiet between us stretched thin.
"Louis?" Alistair's voice trembled. "Please, just talk to him. I'm worried. I don't know what to do."
"I'll handle it," I said automatically.
He exhaled shakily, relief mingled with guilt. "Thank you."
When the call ended, I stayed frozen for a long while, my phone heavy in my hand. The logical part of me said Charles was just angry — that whatever was happening, he'd cool down eventually.
But the bond…
The bond whispered something else.
It coiled in my chest like fire and ice, a restless ache that told me he was hurting. That something had torn him open from the inside.
I pressed a hand over my sternum, feeling the faint throb that always came when our connection pulled tight across distance.
I wasn't worried about him as a brother.
I was worried about him as my mate.
And if someone — or something — had pushed him to that breaking point…
then I was going to find out who.
"Bill, give me a moment," I said, setting down my tablet. "I need some privacy to make a call."
Bill hesitated for a second, then nodded and left the room.
I scrolled through my contacts until I found his name — Charles. My thumb hovered over it for a moment. Then I pressed call.
Once. Twice. Thrice. No answer.
On the fourth ring, the line clicked.
"Louis?" His voice was low, groggy. "You don't usually call. The last time you did was when you told us you were bringing your fiancée home. So… why now, brother?"
The way he said brother—sharp and bitter—stabbed straight through my chest.
"Charles, Alistair called," I said quietly. "He said you haven't eaten. That you snapped at him this morning. What's going on with you?"
There was silence—heavy, drawn-out silence. Then came his voice again, colder than before.
"Louis, it's none of your business. It never has been. You never cared. So don't start now. Please… just don't."
Something in me broke. I didn't even think before I snapped back.
"Charles, I don't care about what's wrong with you!" I shouted. "If you want to waste away, fine."
"A dry, ragged sound—maybe a laugh—escaped him. "You don't care about me," he said. "You never have."
That line hit somewhere below my ribs. I answered with what I'd been building into a roar.
"I do care," I said, and the words were ugly and raw. "I care so much it hurts. But I'm not going to let your bleeding ruin Mother. You think I don't see the way you drag the house into your chaos? You think I don't see the wreckage you leave behind? I don't give a damn about your theatrics — you'll not break her heart because of your temper."
My voice went harder. "You're an adopted rat playing at tragedy. But Mother—she's hers. If you make her cry, if you make her sick with worry because you're too busy falling apart over your fantasies, I will come find you in that stupid grave and I will make sure you regret it for the rest of whatever remains of you."
Silence. His breathing sounded like it might crack. I could hear him trying to hold it together.
"Fuck you, Louis," he said finally—small and shattered. "If you hate me, just say so."
My throat went dry.
"Don't rub it in my face that you have a fiancée," he continued, almost choking on the words. "You want to know why I'm angry? It's you. It's always been you."
He paused, and I could hear the sound of quiet sobbing.
"We're mates, Louis," he whispered. "We're fated. And you keep pretending that means nothing. You chose him because he's perfect — because he fits your world. And me? I'm not good enough. I'm not rich enough. Not beautiful enough. Not anything enough for you."
And then — softer than I'd ever heard — the thing I'd been half-praying for and half-dreading.
"I love you," he whispered, like a confession offered on broken glass.
The line went dead before I could answer. My hands shook. For a second I felt like I'd both killed him and saved him at the same time.