My Father Sold Me to a bunch of Crazy Alphas
Chapter 114: You’re under Arrest ( Luther’s POV )

Chapter 114: You’re under Arrest ( Luther’s POV )

"What do you mean by that?"

My voice doesn’t hold.

It slips.

Cracks in the middle like something split.

Too thin, too soft, then sharp, then gone. I try again, but it stumbles out wrong, uneven. Words trip over each other, break apart before they reach him.

My throat burns.

Feels tight, raw, like it’s closing.

Feels like the air’s against me, pressing down, stealing control.

I can’t stop.

I can’t make it steady.

It keeps breaking, and I don’t know if I’m speaking or choking anymore.

"Secondary-gender is rather simple- you either have more of a hormone similar to estrogen, testosterone or you lack both. That’s why an omega and a beta can overdose on pheromone since the-the—"

"The gland that produces those?"

He sits by the sink with his head down while the water runs in a thin stream. His hands are red, the color packed deep under his nails. He drags a bar of soap hard across his fingers, scrubbing fast, over and over. The white turns pink, then red, but he keeps going.

He rinses his hands and checks. It’s not enough. The color stays stuck in the lines. He curses under his breath. The word comes out broken, a stutter that dies halfway. He freezes for a second, shoulders tight, breathing heavy.

Then he goes back to it, nails scraping against the soap, harder this time. The skin around his fingers splits open, fresh blood mixing with the foam, but he doesn’t stop.

A sound slips out of him—low and shaky. His jaw locks, his teeth clicking as he bites down.

His mouth moves like he wants to say something, but the word falls apart before it leaves him.

He throws the bar into the sink, grabs another, and starts again, scrubbing so hard water splashes over the edge. His breath is fast now, sharp and uneven.

I stay in the doorway, watching Emiliano Sanchez finally showing a crack.

But why?

He doesn’t care about Tom.

Why would he react like that?

"Yeah, that gland. Even betas have it. So when drowned in too many alpha pheromones, it panics and overloads. The body can’t deal with a surplus and so the overdose appears, overheating the body, causing heart failure."

The soap hits the sink and slides into the drain.

Emiliano slams his hand on the counter, hard enough to rattle the faucet.

His fingers curl into a fist, then open again, shaking. He grabs the edge of the sink, squeezes until his knuckles pale, then jerks away like it burns.

His hands go to his head, clawing through his hair, nails scraping his scalp.

He paces fast, back and forth, then stops, punches the counter once, hard.

Water splashes from the sink, running down the front of the cabinet.

He grips the edge again, breath short and sharp, like he’s fighting himself.

"Are you ok?"

"Tom didn’t overheat. Not as the prime syndrome so he either is an alpha or he has suffered a mutation."

"Emiliano!"

"Given how I have no idea how his gland looks and I have not a single ounce of information about the chemical composition of his blood, I need to get him to a laboratory. Now!"

I knew exactly what I needed to say to break the ranting session of aggressive yapping he started to cope with whatever scrubbing Tom reminded him of.

It didn’t make the action less unpleasant.

"Babe?"

His eyes widen fast, sharp and clear.

The change is sudden, cutting through the stillness. They stay open, locked on something I can’t see.

No blink.

Just that fixed stare, bright and tense.

The surprise in them isn’t loud—it’s controlled, but it’s there, stretching the corners, pulling them wide.

A breath leaves him slow, steady now, but his eyes don’t calm. They search, quick flicks side to side, then back to center, holding again.

"Oh. Right. Sorry, pup."

"What happened?"

"Don’t worry about it. I’ll tell you someday."

He hesitated for a second.

"I know under the conditioned love I made you feel, you despise me. I know that this control I have over you— this messed up leash will end up strangling either you or me. I know it’s selfish of me to ask..."

I swallow hard.

The sound feels loud in my own ears. My throat is dry, tight, like the words got stuck on the way down. I didn’t see it coming. Not from him. My chest jerks with a breath I can’t steady.

I just stare, wide-eyed, silent, waiting.

His eyes darken. Dangerously. Angerly.

"Puppy, hold me..."

His voice changes.

Sharper.

Harder.

The crack smooths into steel. His tone rises, not loud but cutting, demanding an answer I can’t give.

The air shifts with him. Warmth spreads first, then the scent—vanilla, faint but thick, pepper close behind, sharp at the edges, and something darker under it, charred wood and heat.

It settles heavy in my lungs, clinging to the back of my throat. I can’t move. I can barely breathe.

His words keep coming, stronger now, pressing into every inch of space.

I pull him in before I think twice, arms locking hard around him.

His body is warm, solid, his breath brushing my neck.

I hold on tighter, like that will fix something.

My chest feels tight too, like I’m about to choke.

My head runs circles.

I should ask about Tom.

I need to.

But the words feel heavy in my mouth.

If I say his name now, will Emiliano break again? Or worse, act out and get me in a coma, leaving Tom to die?

Maybe I should ask what that was—his reaction, the look in his eyes, the way his voice cracked then burned.

But if I press him, he’ll know I’m watching too closely.

He’ll hate that.

Or I could say nothing. Just hold him. Pretend this is comfort. Act like that’s what he needs from me.

A silent shield.

A lie.

My hands press harder into his back. He doesn’t move.

My jaw aches from holding still, from biting down every question. My heart is racing so loud I think he can hear it.

"Your pasta was underseasoned."

That was all I could say. Nothing about what just happened or what will. Just a critique of his food.

That was annoyingly delicious by the way.

A sound slips out of him, low and strange.

Then another.

It builds slow until I know—it’s a laugh.

A quiet, broken chuckle against my skin.

My arms stay tight around him, but my head spins.

I can feel something on my neck, warm and damp. I don’t know if it’s mine or his. Sweat from my nerves rolling down, or tears from him soaking through.

My throat locks up, and I just stand there holding him, feeling that sound—half laugh, half something else—shiver down my spine like it’s not supposed to be there.

"Don’t leave me, puppy..."

"Like I have a choice."

Another muffled chuckle.

"Yeah, let’s not give you that choice. I would hate to be a widow."

Not divorced.

A widow.

My arms wrapped around Emiliano, trying to keep us steady.

The air is thick with quiet.

Then the first bang hits the front door.

Slow.

Heavy.

It makes the walls shudder.

I freeze. My heart kicks faster.

Another bang.

Louder now.

The whole building vibrates with the force.

The banging turns into a steady assault.

Hard, fast.

I don’t move.

Emiliano stays still too.

Neither of us says a word.

The noise grows. Footsteps stamp from below.

They are heavy, urgent.

The sounds fill the stairwell. It echoes up the building toward us. My breath shortens. My head pounds.

The banging breaks the door.

Wood splinters explode.

The door frame cracks and bursts open.

Dark shapes pour inside.

No warning.

No words.

Only movement.

They wear black.

Masks cover their faces.

Arms hold guns.

The barrels point at me.

I don’t have time to think.

A dart shoots past my ear. Another hits the wall beside me. The darts fly fast, sharp, precise.

I stumble back.

Panic rises in my chest. Emiliano grabs me, pulling me away from the open door.

I almost trip.

We fall behind the sink, low and out of sight. Darts whistle through the air around us.

I catch my breath, heart racing.

The smell of cold metal fills the room. My legs shake. I want to run, but there’s nowhere to go.

The men move like machines.

No hesitation.

They sweep the room with their guns.

They don’t speak.

Their eyes scan every corner, every shadow.

The air feels tight.

Heavy.

I can hear the quick clicks of the darts being loaded.

Another dart flies toward me.

I duck, hitting the edge of the bathtub.

Pain flares in my shoulder as I slide down the wall.

Emiliano is right beside me. His hand is firm on my arm, steadying me.

His breathing is fast but controlled.

"I’ll get all of us out of here. Breathe, pup!"

I try to slow my own breath.

My mind races.

What do they want? Why here? Why now?

I don’t have answers.

Only the sound of the darts, the shouts outside, and the pounding of my own heart.

The room feels smaller.

The air thickens.

I stay low. Emiliano shifts beside me, scanning the space with sharp eyes.

His grip tightens on my arm. I know he’s ready.

Ready for whatever comes next.

The darts keep flying, the men keep moving. Everything is fast.

Loud.

Brutal.

The only thing I can do is hold onto Emiliano. Hold onto whatever calm I can find in the chaos. My arms squeeze around him again. The noise crashes around us. We wait.

"Luther Wilkers, you are under arrest for the murder of the Prime Minister Cassian Wilkers!"