[BL]Reborn as the Empire's Most Desired Omega
Chapter 215: Dealing with leftovers (3)

Chapter 215: Chapter 215: Dealing with leftovers (3)

[WARNING GORE]

Jason’s lips parted, but no words came. His throat worked around a breath he couldn’t quite control, and for a moment, something flickered in his expression, not fear, not yet, but the beginning of it. Confusion. Disorientation. The realization that something invisible was wrapping around his lungs, pressing, curling inside his skull like smoke.

But still, he tried.

Jason straightened, shoulders rigid against the pull, jaw clenched. "You think this scares me?" he managed, forcing the words out like gravel. "I’ve stood in front of alphas before."

Trevor tilted his head, calm and cold. "Not like me."

The weight of his pheromones shifted, infiltrating the air he breathed, sharp and clean, like glass sliding under skin.

There was no visible tension in Trevor’s body. He didn’t raise his voice or lunge across the table. He simply allowed a thin ripple of dominance to saturate the air, his pheromones crisp and controlled, laced with something ancient, something that reminded even the bravest men that they were soft beneath the surface.

A dominant alpha’s presence wasn’t just stronger than the rest but rewrote the rules of any room they entered.

Trevor let it settle and watched Jason’s pulse stutter, his breath grow shallow. On the other side of the glass, Dax tilted his head, expression unreadable now, the lazy amusement gone.

Jason’s fingers twitched against the table. He blinked too fast, his throat working against the quiet crush of the atmosphere. His next breath came sharp, almost involuntary.

"You feel that?" Trevor asked quietly, voice low but almost gentle. "That’s just the surface. You haven’t even earned worse yet."

Jason swallowed, sweat starting to gather near his collar despite the coolness of the room. "This is illegal," he muttered. "There are limits..."

Trevor’s expression didn’t shift. His voice remained level, almost conversational but every syllable landed with the weight of a blade drawn slow.

"When did legality ever become a concern of yours, hmm?" he asked, tone deceptively smooth. "Certainly not when you opened the doors to Christian Velloran at the Bay Manor. Not in Saha, when your greed made you stretch just to catch a flicker of something you had no right to touch. And definitely not here, at our wedding, when you walked in smiling with poison in your pocket."

He leaned forward, slow and deliberate, shadows sliding across the sharp lines of his jaw. "So let me ask again," he said, quieter now, the space between them bristling with pressure. "Who the fuck are you serving now?"

Jason’s mouth opened again, but the sound that came out wasn’t a word. Just a rough exhale, frayed at the edges.

"You think you’re at the center of this," Trevor murmured. "But you’re not. You were never anything more than a tool. And the worst part is..." his gaze sharpened, voice like velvet over steel, "you thought you mattered."

Jason flinched then, almost imperceptibly, but Trevor saw it. The way his spine drew tighter, the flicker of betrayal crossing his features, like he had only just begun to suspect how disposable he really was.

Trevor leaned back slightly, letting up just enough pressure to let the man breathe again, but not fully.

"Someone told you to bring poison to my wedding," he continued, measured. "Someone handed it to you. Someone promised you something in return. And now you’re sitting here, waiting for that someone to come save you."

He folded his hands in front of him casually. "They won’t."

A faint sound escaped Jason, something like a breath, something like a laugh, but it died halfway through, caught in the tightness of his chest.

"I don’t need to break you, Jason," Trevor said, his voice dropping to something colder than before. "You’re already cracked. I just want the name."

It was a lie, one so calmly spoken that it could dwell on truth.

Dax saw it instantly, the truth woven beneath the calm: it didn’t matter what Jason said. Even if he gave a list of names, even if they were real, even if he sobbed out every detail, Trevor would still kill him.

He smiled, a row of white teeth showing into a grin that expected death like an old friend.

Jason stuttered, his mouth moving before his thoughts could catch up, the pressure on his lungs and the fog in his mind making it nearly impossible to form coherent words.

"There..." He dragged in a breath, shallow and ragged, like the air itself was resisting him. "There are two that want Lucas... One is Christian Velloran and the other is the head of Agatha. Cardinal..." Another gasp. "Cardinal Benedict Allen Morton."

The words hung in the air, too heavy to vanish, too damning to ignore.

And on the other side of the glass, Dax’s grin faded, changing to that rare stillness that meant he was already ten steps ahead, recalculating the lines of war. The name Benedict Allen Morton cut through the room like ice, slicing through the layers of air Trevor’s dominance hadn’t yet devoured.

Trevor’s eyes didn’t flicker, he had his own doubts about the clergy, but one of the Cardinals? That was... oddly expected.

Jason’s lips parted again, maybe for another name, maybe for mercy, maybe just for air, but the room had already turned on him.

Trevor raised one hand with the stillness of a ruler, and the pheromones in the air shifted from quiet gravity to command.

Jason choked. His hands flew to his throat, but there was nothing to grasp. Splintering pain rose from his core with every breath, and God, he would’ve done anything for one clean inhale, but each one brought agony instead. The taste of metal. The crack of something tearing inside.

Blood spilled next, from his nose, his ears, the corners of his eyes. Every orifice began to flood as his blood vessels gave way, melting under the slow, invisible toxin woven into the air.

Jason’s nails clawed at his throat, blind, frantic but there was nothing to grip. No rope, no wire, no hand. Just the unseen weight of Trevor’s presence rooted itself in every nerve. His legs jerked once beneath the chair, his spine bowing as if trying to curl away from his own ribs.

His eyes rolled back for a second, then snapped forward again, blood tracing a jagged path down his cheekbones. The whites of his eyes were gone now, veined over in red, and still the pressure didn’t stop.

Trevor watched without moving. No flicker of mercy. No disgust. Just silence, as if he were watching an equation resolve itself.

Jason tried to speak again, a syllable, maybe a plea, but only a wet gurgle came out, followed by a fresh stream of crimson from his lips. His spine arched once, a full-body spasm that cracked in his joints. And then... collapse.

His body fell forward over the table with a heavy, final thud. Blood smeared across the polished surface. His limbs twitched once more, then stilled.

The air in the room cleared slightly, as if it had been holding its breath too.

Behind the glass, Dax grinned with satisfaction.

He raised one brow, then offered a slow, deliberate clap, the sound muffled by the thick pane but no less smug for it.

Trevor didn’t acknowledge it. Just stood, smoothed the sleeves of his coat, and turned toward the door as if the corpse behind him was nothing more than paperwork already filed.

He reached the door, opened it with one smooth pull, and stepped into the outer hall where two of his men waited, black-clad, efficient, and silent.

"Clean it."

Both nodded without hesitation.

Trevor paused, just briefly, fingers adjusting the cufflink at his wrist, then added, almost as an afterthought, "Send something recognizably human to the ones who came with him. A hand. An eye. Doesn’t matter."

A beat.

"Seal it well. With House Fitzgeralt’s regards."

The hallway seemed still, the weight of the order settling like dust.

"Yes, my lord."