My Father Sold Me to a bunch of Crazy Alphas
Chapter 115: Two Petals Left ( Luther’s POV )

Chapter 115: Two Petals Left ( Luther’s POV )

"Emiliano, don’t!"

"I have no choice. Either they die or you get arrested."

"I can’t have any more blood on my hands!"

"Tom will die."

"What?"

"They will arrest me too. Tom will be taken into a hospital and he will die."

As the tranquilizer darts were flying around us, millimeters away from our heads, I couldn’t think straight.

If I accept, all those police officers will die instantly.

If I don’t, Tom will die.

Twenty lives of strangers versus the life of my first love.

"I can’t... I—"

"It’s fine, puppy. Close your eyes. Let me deal with them."

Emiliano’s endearing gaze did nothing but overflow the already stream of tears rolling down my cheeks. He softly caressed my hair, taking just one more longing look at me as if—

If things would go badly, he would keep that memory of me as compensation for his life.

"You tried to stop it. Just blame it on me. My hands are already bloody."

Emiliano’s hand clamps over my mouth.

His grip is iron. My breath cuts off before I can make a sound.

He moves fast. His head tilts down, chest expanding like he’s pulling something deep from inside.

Then it hits.

He is not keeping me quiet, he is preventing me from breathing in.

The air changes in an instant.

Heavy.

Dense.

It pushes into my throat like fire.

I try to breathe but it scorches going in. Every inhale scrapes raw. My chest locks. My lungs burn.

The taste is sharp and metallic. It floods my tongue and doesn’t leave. My stomach twists so hard I nearly vomit in his hand.

My vision shakes. My eyes water so bad I can’t see straight. My whole body jerks like it wants out of my skin.

Emiliano tightens his grip even more.

He is sweating and panting. This is hard on him as well.

The men freeze first. All black armor. Guns drawn. Helmets turning toward us.

Their bodies tense. Fingers twitch on triggers. Then they start shaking.

Hard.

One drops his rifle. It slams on the tile with a loud crack.

The sound shatters something in me. My heart races so fast it hurts.

Another man stumbles into the sink. His helmet scrapes the porcelain. Then he rips it off like it’s choking him.

His face is red. Eyes wide and wet. Mouth open too wide.

He vomits.

A gush of thick yellow liquid hits the sink and pours down the drain. The smell floods the air.

Bitter. Rotting.

Acid mixed with Emiliano’s scent. It crushes everything.

The burning wood smells now as a cadaver ash. The pepper became so intense, it had the same effect as a bear spray. The vanilla was so raw and unfiltered, it scratched the throat so deeply, it felt like it crawled it open.

Another man falls to his knees.

His body jerks forward and bile spills from him in waves. The floor glistens, sticky and yellow.

It spreads under their boots.

The others follow.

All gagging.

All vomiting hard, like their guts are tearing out. The noise fills the room—retching, choking, boots sliding on vomit.

One smashes his head against the marble wall. The first hit is loud. The second louder. Then a crack.

Blood sprays the white stone.

He doesn’t stop. His skull slams again and again until his face is nothing but pulp sliding down the wall.

Another joins him.

Then two more.

The sound of bone and skin splitting fills the space.

The walls run red in thick streams, mixing with the yellow bile on the floor.

I choke again, harder.

My throat closes. My eyes sting so bad I can’t see.

Emiliano’s grip doesn’t loosen. He forces me still, forces me quiet. His body shields mine like steel.

I want to scream. My chest convulses with the need, but no sound comes out.

Only a wheeze against his palm.

One man still has his gun. He doesn’t aim at us.

He jams the barrel into his eye socket.

The pop is wet.

Loud.

The eyeball bursts and slides down his cheek.

He fires before he drops. The dart flies into the ceiling, then he collapses in the vomit.

Another soldier follows. Gun to his face. Finger tight on the trigger.

His skull jerks back when it goes off. Half his head paints the wall.

Two more stab themselves in the eyes with their darts, twisting until the sockets spill red and white.

The room shakes with their deaths. Boots thrash. Bodies slam against the walls and floor. The air is thick enough to kill. It sears every breath I take.

I can’t move. I can’t think.

Emiliano moves fast.

His shirt is off in one sharp pull. The fabric rips at the collar as he tears it loose.

His scent clings to it heavy, but different now.

Not the same as before.

Softer. Deep. Warm.

It rolls out in waves, coating the air like a shield.

It smelled like a wood cabin chimney fire in the middle of the winter. Hot vanilla cocoa in the air.

Blending. Complimenting. Comforting.

He presses it over my face before I can gasp for more air.

The cloth sticks to my skin, damp with his sweat, thick with that calm. It pushes against my mouth, and the first breath I drag in is almost sweet.

My throat still burns, but it doesn’t cut anymore.

My chest loosens, inch by inch. My head still spins, but the edges soften.

He grips my jaw tight, forcing me to keep the shirt there.

My breath comes shaky, but it comes.

The chaos behind us is still loud—boots thrashing, bodies breaking, bile splashing against tile—but it feels farther now.

His scent buries it, dulls it.

Then he pulls me.

Up on my feet.

My legs barely hold.

They shake so hard I think they’ll snap, but he doesn’t let me fall.

His arm locks around my waist, iron tight, and drags me through the door.

The hall is a blur.

Broken walls.

Blood smeared where helmets slammed. Shouts from the stairwell below. My ears ring so loud I can’t tell if they’re real or in my head.

Down one flight.

My knees crash against the steps, but Emiliano keeps me moving. His body shields mine from every open angle. His breath is steady.

My own still jerks out fast, but the shirt... the scent... it holds me together.

We hit the bottom.

The air outside is cold and sharp, but I barely feel it.

Emiliano doesn’t stop. He shoves the door open hard enough that it splinters on the frame.

The sound makes me flinch, but his grip on me never slips.

The car is waiting.

Black.

Tom’s car.

When did he get the keys?

He rips the back door open and pushes me inside.

The seat burns cold against my arms, but the shirt stays pressed to my face. I hold it myself now, clinging like it’s the only thing left in the world.

He leans in, checks my eyes once—quick, sharp—then pulls back.

He doesn’t speak.

He slams the door, and then he’s gone.

The street feels empty without him.

Dark.

Dead quiet except for my own breath.

I can’t stop it shaking. My hands tremble against the fabric. My body curls in on itself.

Tom.

He’s still up there. Unconscious.

What if the pheromones got to him?...

Emiliano went back for him. Alone.

My gut twists hard, like something inside wants to claw out. It hurts worse than the burn in my lungs.

If Tom dies because of me—because of this—I’ll never crawl out of it.

My nails dig into my thighs. My heart slams against my ribs so hard I feel sick. The images won’t stop—Tom’s body on the bathroom tile, the blood, the bile, those men smashing their heads until nothing was left.

What if Emiliano doesn’t come back?

The thought cracks through me like ice. My whole chest caves in around it. I can’t breathe. My throat locks up.

The guilt tears like teeth through every nerve.

But then—

The scent.

It’s still there.

Thick in the shirt.

Wrapping my face.

Wrapping me.

It slows the worst of it.

Not enough to erase the pain, but enough to keep me from breaking in half.

My breath evens, shaky but steady.

The edge of panic dulls under the weight of him, like his presence pressed into every thread of the fabric.

I hold it tighter. My nails clutch the cotton until it stretches, until it bites my palms. My body curls around it.

I wait.

I don’t know for how long.

"F-ck."

Why?

Why would the police come?

Why would they arrest me that aggressively?

The process is not yet for another month. Emiliano took me out on a very expensive bail. I should be free.

So why?

Just who is after me that badly?...

Could it be—

Well, Tom told me that he helped him into killing my father...

What if he wants me dead too?...

My stomach hurts. So badly.

My fingers dig into the fabric of my own shirt before I even think. I pull it up, slow, trembling. Every movement makes the pain flare.

The flower —

The petals have lost all color, fading to a sick gray. The edges curl like burned paper. The center has gone thin, fragile. I can see the cracks running through it.

One petal slides off as I look. It sticks to my skin for a second before it drops onto the seat. Another breaks away right after. My breath hitches.

Only two petals remain. Two.

A sharp sound escapes me before I can stop it. It isn’t a word. Just broken air tearing out of my throat. My hand presses down hard over the mark, like I can hold it together, like I can stop it from falling apart completely.

The heat under my skin feels wrong. Empty. Not mine anymore.

I grip Emiliano’s shirt with my other hand and shove it against my face. His scent fills my lungs in harsh bursts, trying to drown the panic. It steadies me for a second, but the sight of the flower burned into my mind keeps cutting through.

Two petals.

That’s all that’s left.

What does that mean?

What is happening to my body?...