My Father Sold Me to a bunch of Crazy Alphas
Chapter 121: Incomplete Bond? ( Emiliano’s POV )

Chapter 121: Incomplete Bond? ( Emiliano’s POV )

"What did you do to him?"

"Shut up!"

"Why is he unconscious?"

"Shut up!"

"He was fine before!"

"I swear to God, Tom, if you don’t shut your mouth now, I’ll put you back into a coma and never wake you up again!"

Finally, the annoying tumor of my wife stopped talking. Yet, the situation hasn’t gone any better.

I can’t seem to figure out what causes Luther’s flower to wilt.

Any form of excitement, fear or strong emotion causes him to convulse uncontrollably. And I—

I can’t figure it out.

Since we got here, at another one of my residences, Luther’s state did nothing but worsen.

I thought the ranch where we are staying would be a good scenery change for him.

The small house stands alone at the far end of the ranch.

Trees block it from view. A dirt road leads up to it.

The wood is old but strong. The roof holds steady in the wind.

No cars pass by.

No neighbors are near.

Birds call from the trees.

Inside, it is quiet. One room holds a table, a chair, and a bed. The air smells clean.

Outside, grass grows wild. A fence runs along the edge of the land. The sun rises early and sets without a sound.

The clear air should have helped, but instead —

My puppy.

I grab Luther off the floor.

His body is heavy, limp in my arms. He’s not breathing right. His chest rises too slow, too shallow.

I drag him to the mattress in my room and push my hand hard against his ribs. I force his lungs to move. I listen for breath, and when there’s none, I breathe for him. I don’t stop until I hear a wheeze.

His body twitches.

I reach for the kit.

I find the needle, the blade, and the vial.

My hands shake, but I move fast.

I draw blood.

A lot.

More than I want to.

I don’t waste it. I bag it for further analysis and experiments, but this is not how I imagined collecting my wife’s blood.

I watch his face the whole time. His lips are pale. His jaw clenches once, then loosens. He’s still not conscious.

I stop just before it’s too much.

I press gauze to the wound.

I keep his head tilted back. I check the pulse. It’s weak, but it’s there.

Whatever this is, whatever is eating him alive, this works for now.

But only just.

Tom is watching over me. He limped out of his bed only to supervise me.

Idiot brat.

Yet he is still the last of my problems.

I sit beside my puppy. My chest feels tight. My hands won’t stop shaking. I try not to let the panic crawl too far in.

I look at his face. His eyes flutter once.

There’s pain there, even though he’s out cold. His skin flushes, then drains again, like his body can’t make up its mind.

I touch his face.

It’s cold.

He’s always cold these days.

I lift his shirt. The mark is still there on his stomach. The belladonna bloom.

Once it had seven petals.

Now there are only two left.

The edges of them flicker faintly, like they’re fading.

I place my hand over the mark. His body responds. He shivers under my touch, even unconscious. I press my palm flat, gentle but firm.

I hate that this is all I can do.

Ventilate his lungs.

Draw his blood.

Touch the mark.

None of it heals him.

It just buys time.

Hours.

A few days if we’re lucky.

But I do it anyway. I’d do it a hundred more times if it kept him here.

His body jerks slightly.

A soft grunt escapes his throat.

I move closer. I keep my hand over the mark. I smooth my fingers around it, tracing the last two petals.

They’re warm.

Warmer than the rest of him.

I lower my head and press my lips to the mark. A slow kiss, careful, not meant to wake him.

But his back arches under me.

His body knows me. Even now.

Tom grunts threateningly. As if he could do something.

He is only here, because my wife can’t feel upset in this state of health.

Luther doesn’t wake. He might not for hours. Maybe not until I have to do this all again.

I sit back and watch him breathe.

It’s better now.

Not perfect, but better. I count the seconds between each breath. I memorize every sound. The way his fingers twitch. The way his lips part just enough for air. The way the mark pulses faintly under his skin.

I can’t stop thinking about how close he is to slipping. Every time I close my eyes, I see the moment he stops breathing.

The moment I draw blood, and it’s not enough. The moment those last two petals fall.

I don’t know what happens after that.

I’m not sure I want to find out.

Would he transform into an alpha?

Would his pheromones lose their toxicity?

Will he become useless for my plan?

Will he die?...

Will I care if he won’t serve my purpose anymore?

I will... I care about him. Further than his utility. Further than any logical reasoning.

I reach for the blanket and pull it over his legs.

I tuck it under his side.

He doesn’t move. I rest my hand back on his stomach. His skin is warm there, like something inside is still trying to fight.

I want to believe that.

That there’s something in him that still wants to stay. Something strong enough to hold on.

"Please, puppy..."

Tom scoffed, but I could see his eyes tearing up in worry.

My throat burns.

I swallow hard. I lean down again. I kiss the mark once more.

Softer this time. His breath hitches. That’s enough.

Just a sign. Just proof that he’s still here.

The room is quiet. Just the low hum of the fan. Just our breaths. I wipe the sweat from his forehead.

His fever is still high, but not as bad. I wonder how long before it starts again.

Before I have to cut into him. Before I have to draw more blood. Before I have to breathe for him again.

I press my palm over the mark and promise myself I’ll keep doing this. As long as there’s breath in his body, I’ll keep going. I’ll draw blood. I’ll move his lungs. I’ll kiss the mark again and again.

Because it works. Not forever. But for now.

I’ll figure it out.

I’ll save my marriage, my plan—

Our future.

I just need to focus. All the information I know, all the research I ever did, all of it.

Let’s start from the basics.

I sit still, heart pounding, trying to make sense of this.

The mark on his stomach—just two petals left—isn’t random. It’s a system. A signal. I know that now. It’s tied to something deeper.

His gland. The source of his pheromones. The thing that regulates everything in an omega’s body.

If the flower is fading, then the gland is failing. That’s the link.

But glands don’t fail on their own. Something hit it. Something triggered this collapse.

Stress? Maybe. He’s been on edge for days, but not like this. Not enough to cause this.

Toxins? No signs. No exposure. No sudden diet changes. I go over every detail. Every variable.

Then my stomach twists.

Pheromones.

Of course.

The flower is tied to the gland. The gland makes pheromones. If the flower is dying, then the gland is being overwhelmed. Not shut down—overloaded. Flooded.

By what?

Alpha pheromones.

Mine.

My blood.

I stiffen.

I gave him my blood. To trick his brain into thinking he has a mate without the proper bonding. So he would reject other alphas.

Plan which clearly failed given the Akna brat and the red hair tumor watching over me like a hawk.

It’s killing him.

My pheromones are inside his bloodstream now, traveling through every part of him. His gland doesn’t know how to respond. It’s trying to adapt, to submit, to change—but he hasn’t been claimed.

There’s no bond.

No anchor.

His body’s reacting like he’s being force-marked without mating.

It’s not a rejection. It’s confusion.

I changed the rules and left him floating in the middle of it.

The petals are what’s left of his strength, holding on. The rest of him is spiraling, trying to obey instincts he doesn’t understand. My scent is inside him, but the bond is incomplete.

His system is locked in limbo. If he was already mine, this wouldn’t be happening. If he had been claimed properly, his body would know what to do.

But he’s not. And it doesn’t.

This isn’t sickness.

This is a partial bond gone wrong.

The only way to fix this is to finish it.

I have to bond him. Fully. No more in-between. No more hesitation. The gland will only stabilize if it recognizes the pheromones as his alpha’s. Not just foreign, not invasive, but bonded.

Claimed. Completed. Marked.

I feel sick with how obvious it is now. He was fine until the transfusion. His body started failing after I forced my scent inside without giving him the structure to hold it.

And now his only chance is me.

I look down at him. His face is pale. His chest rises, slow and weak. His body shakes even in sleep. His scent is all wrong—thin, broken, barely there.

I pull the blanket back. The mark glows faintly. Just the last two petals left. I touch them gently. They quiver. He responds even now, unconscious, trembling under my fingers.

I didn’t mean to start this, but I did.

Now I have to finish it.

There’s no more guessing. No more hoping he’ll stabilize on his own. He won’t. This is tearing him apart. My blood’s inside him, and his body won’t stop until it knows it belongs there.

He needs the bond.

He needs me.

Not just close. Not just helping.

His.

Fully.

Or he won’t survive.

But—

If I proceed with the bond, then his pheromones would lose any chance to be successfully injected in other omegas.

So my plan would be ruined.

I can stabilize him like him for the rest of his life and proceed with my plan.

Or

I can mark him and save him.

What should I do?...