My Father Sold Me to a bunch of Crazy Alphas
Chapter 101: Alpha or Omega? ( Killian’s POV )

Chapter 101: Alpha or Omega? ( Killian’s POV )

"Killian, you’re hurting me!"

"Say what you want! I am getting a doctor to inspect you. There is no way you are pregnant with my child!"

"Killian, you’re humiliating me!"

Nothing mattered.

Not the heads turning in the clinic, not the phones filming, not Damian’s desperate screams.

"Sir, please, calm down!"

The plea of the nurses meant nothing. If Damian is truly pregnant with my child, I’ll be a dead man walking for the rest of my life.

A child made out of just pheromones attracting each other was bound to be regretted.

"Test us. Both. Everything. From pheromones to his supposed pregnancy. Now!"

"Sir, there is a line of waiting. You can’t just burst in and—"

"I’ll give you a hundred thousand if you get all the results in the next two hours."

"Sir?"

"Do I look like I’m joking! Move!"

"Killian!"

Damian’s clothes were a mess.

His shirt was crumpled and half untucked, hanging loose at one side, the collar stretched from where I’d grabbed him. His jeans were creased, belt twisted. His hair was sticking out in every direction, like he hadn’t had a second to fix it.

His face was red, eyes swollen and wet, tears streaking down his cheeks in uneven lines.

His breathing was sharp and broken, coming out too fast, almost like hiccups between sobs.

He stood next to me with his arms wrapped around himself, gripping his own elbows like that was the only thing holding him up.

His shoulders were shaking hard enough that I could feel the movement whenever we brushed.

Every head in the waiting room was turned on us.

People sitting in plastic chairs stared openly, some with eyebrows raised, others whispering under their breath.

Two had their phones up, angled like they were filming without even pretending to hide it.

The judgment was obvious in every look thrown our way.

The nurses behind the counter exchanged glances, one lifting her chin slightly toward the other, and then both stepped out from behind the desk with their badges swinging against their scrubs.

One nurse approached me, the other went to Damian.

They didn’t waste time asking more questions; they just gestured toward the hall.

Their faces were blank, but their eyes weren’t—cold, disapproving, like they already hated everything about this.

But I guess a hundred thousand dollars was worth more than the morality of the situation.

They split us up.

Damian got pulled into a room on the left, me into another on the right.

I let them move me without argument, even though every muscle in my body was coiled tight.

The first thing they did was blood work.

One nurse tightened a band around my arm and swabbed the inside of my elbow with alcohol. The smell burned my nose. The needle slid in without warning.

Tube after tube filled up with dark red, and the tray clinked when she set them down.

She didn’t say a word except to tell me to hold a piece of gauze when she was done.

Then came the check.

Two of them leaned in, flashlights in hand, tilting my head like I was a criminal under interrogation.

They made me open my mouth, pull back my lips. I could feel the cold metal of the tool pressing against my gums as they checked the size of my canines, my bite pattern, taking photos from every angle.

Every click of the camera made my jaw tighten harder.

In the room next door, I could hear muffled voices and the soft sound of Damian crying, even through the wall.

It wasn’t loud, but it was constant, like he couldn’t stop even if he tried.

When they were done with me, they moved fast.

Papers rustled, gloves snapped off, trays wheeled away.

No one looked me in the eye for long.

I didn’t see Damian again until an hour later.

They brought us both into a small consultation room with pale walls and two chairs facing a desk.

Damian came in first, escorted by a nurse holding a clipboard.

His face looked worse than before—redder, blotchy, eyes puffy like he’d rubbed them raw.

His shirt was buttoned wrong, off by one hole, and the sleeves were wrinkled from being pushed up.

He wouldn’t look at me.

His arms were tight around his stomach like he was trying to hide inside himself.

Another nurse guided me in and shut the door behind us. She didn’t stay.

We sat in silence.

The clock on the wall ticked so loud I could feel it in my teeth.

Damian kept his head down, his hair falling forward to hide most of his face.

His legs were pulled close, knees almost touching, and his hands twisted in his lap.

I stared straight ahead at the empty desk, jaw locked so tight it ached.

My hands were on my thighs, pressing down hard enough that my palms burned.

My headache from earlier hadn’t gone away.

If anything, it was worse, creeping down the back of my neck and settling there like a weight.

The door opened after what felt like forever.

Two nurses came in this time, one holding a thin folder, the other carrying a tablet.

They didn’t sit.

The one with the folder stood behind the desk and opened it.

Papers shifted.

A pen clicked.

Both of them looked at us like they were about to drop something heavy.

The results were ready.

The one with the folder started reading, eyes flicking down at the page, voice even and clipped.

They listed the tests—pheromone compatibility, bite analysis, hormone levels, blood confirmation.

Every word felt like a countdown.

The nurse opened her mouth.

Stopped.

Looked at me again.

The clipboard shifted in her hands, paper edges trembling slightly.

Then the words came, flat, clean, like they’d been rehearsed a hundred times before.

Every muscle in my body went tight at once.

My jaw froze halfway between a breath and a grind.

My throat didn’t work.

For a second, I didn’t even blink—I just stared straight ahead at her mouth moving, the sound dull and heavy, like it was coming through water.

Then it landed.

"Mister Akna, you are not the father. Although that is your mark on Mister Damian, no similar DNA was found in the formation of the fetus. But it’s still too early to say. It’s only one week old."

"One week?"

"As the mark."

"But how can that be?"

"You’ve been out for a week!"

Damian mumbled between the muffled sobs.

The bite was mine.

The claim was mine.

But that didn’t matter anymore.

But how can an omega get pregnant if he is bitten by another alpha than the baby daddy?

It should cancel out any trail of pheromones or sp-rm.

Heat shot up the back of my neck, burning under my skin, but the rest of me felt like it had been drained empty.

My hands twitched once on my thighs, fingers curling hard enough to dig into my own legs.

Nails scraped fabric.

My lungs pulled in air too fast, too sharp, until my chest hurt from how hard it was rising and falling.

The clipboard dropped slightly in her grip as if the weight of the words had dragged it down.

The second nurse shifted from foot to foot, eyes flicking toward the door like she wanted out.

Damian moved first.

He jerked back like something had hit him, and then the sound ripped out of him before I could even register it.

A raw, choking scream that tore through the room.

His whole body shook as he shoved at the chair, standing so fast it slammed against the wall.

His hands went to his head, fingers clawing through his hair, pulling until strands stuck up in every direction. His chest heaved hard enough to lift his shirt with every breath.

The screaming didn’t stop.

It cracked and broke, turning into sharp bursts between sobs, but it kept coming.

Louder, higher, ripping out until the walls caught it and threw it back.

My head pounded like it was going to split.

Every sound hit like a hammer.

I stared at him without really seeing him, my vision snapping in and out of focus, locking on random details—the twisted hem of his shirt, the way his knees shook, the white of his knuckles as he dragged his hands down his face, leaving red marks behind.

Damian is my mated fate.

That bound us for life from now on.

And yet, all I felt was disgust for him.

Something inside me felt loose, like the floor under my thoughts had tilted and wouldn’t stop sliding.

I couldn’t get a full breath no matter how wide I opened my mouth.

My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth, dry as bone, while the air in the room got heavier with every second.

One nurse reached for Damian, hands out like she was calming a wild thing, and he shoved her so hard she almost lost her balance.

The clipboard slammed onto the desk in the scramble, papers sliding everywhere.

The second nurse went for the call button near the door.

My chair scraped against the floor when I stood without realizing it.

My legs felt numb, stiff, like they didn’t know how to work.

My hands were clenched so tight my nails were biting into my palms, and when I opened them, the crescent marks stayed.

Damian’s voice kept shredding the air.

Words tangled into the screams now, sharp and broken, none of them clear through the pitch of his throat.

He stumbled back, hit the wall again, and slid down it until he was on the floor, knees pulled up, fists pressed against his temples like he could crush the noise inside his own head.

His whole frame shook like it was going to break apart right there.

"Sir, please, you’ll lose the baby!"

"It’s not true! It’s Killian’s! Killian, please, I swear it’s the truth!"

The nurses moved fast—one crouched low, the other talking into the intercom, calling for help.

Damian kicked when they tried to touch him, foot slamming against the tile hard enough to echo.

His sobs tore through the sound like glass, jagged and relentless.

"Damian, stop."

My voice came out broken. Shatter. Too high for my tone of voice.

He looked at me with the barely opened eyes—

Puffed out and red from all the crying.

His chest thrashing in and out, like it was about to rip itself apart from his body. But he stopped.

He just curled up in the corner, crying heartbrokenly.

"Mister Akna, we discovered something else rather worrying about your pheromones."

I lean back in the chair, feeling the stiff edge dig into my spine, and lift a brow.

Slow.

Heavy.

Not because I’m surprised—I’m too tired for that.

My jaw tightens once before I let it go, breath sliding out slow, controlled.

My hands stay locked on my knees, knuckles white.

Waiting.

The nurse cleared her voice awkwardly.

"Your secondary gender— it fluctuates between alpha and omega."

"What?"

Is this woman delirious? What does that even mean?

"You’re the first case of a man being both an alpha and an omega."