My Father Sold Me to a bunch of Crazy Alphas
Chapter 81: Broken Promise ( Luther’s POV )

Chapter 81: Broken Promise ( Luther’s POV )

My head is throbbing. It hurts so badly.

Everything looked kind of smeared—like the world had been rubbed with the side of a thumb. Nothing was sharp. I could see, but not really. Shapes blurred, colors bled together, and every time I blinked, it felt like I was falling in and out of focus.

What even happened?

Emiliano strangled Damian.

I kissed him to make him let go.

Tom began to say something about a bounty.

The grenade.

A flash of light, a sound so loud it punched straight through my chest, and then the whole room was flying apart.

The coffee table shattered instantly, chunks of wood and glass shooting across the room. The couch flipped like it weighed nothing, cushions torn open mid-air. Smoke filled the space so fast I couldn’t see past my own hands. Everything smelled like heat and dust and something burning.

Walls cracked. Windows blew out. The blast sucked the air out of the room, then threw it back like a slap.

Did I die?

No.

My head is throbbing and I can see a horrific, but known sight around me.

Emiliano’s basement.

But where is he?

My head was killing me. It wasn’t just a regular headache—it was the kind that made moving feel like a bad idea. Just sitting up felt like too much. Every little shift made the pain spike, sharp and pounding right behind my eyes. Even blinking felt like an effort.

I didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to think. Light made it worse, even the silence made it unbearable. I kept as still as I could, one hand pressed to my forehead like that would somehow help. It didn’t.

The idea of standing up or walking? No way. My whole body felt heavy, like the pain had drained the energy out of me. I just sat there, breathing slowly, trying not to make it worse.

Until I saw the blood.

Emiliano was on the ground. Facedown. Not moving.

There was blood everywhere—under him, around him, soaking into the floor. A lot of it. Too much. A large shard of glass was sticking out of his back, just below his ribs. It was deep. Buried in. His shirt was torn, clinging to his skin, dark with blood.

I threw myself from the surgical table next to him. My hands were shaking. I didn’t know where to touch. I didn’t know if I should move him. His back rose—barely. He was still breathing. Shallow, uneven.

"Emiliano," I said, but it didn’t sound right. My voice cracked.

He didn’t answer. His face was turned to the side, eyes half open, unfocused.

I couldn’t think. I pressed my hand around the wound, not touching the glass, just trying to stop the bleeding. It wasn’t stopping. My palm came away slick. My stomach flipped.

I need to breathe.

Think, Luther, think!

If I remove the glass and it perforated an organ, he’ll bleed out from internal hemorrhage.

But applying too much pressure can make small particles of glass enter his blood. If they get to his heart, it could cut the arteries.

F-ck!

What can I do? I am a politician for Christ’s sake, not a doctor. I can’t make empty lies and hope the glass will believe me and not kill him.

But why do I want to save him?

I stared at his face. His eyes weren’t really open, just slits, unfocused and dazed. His lips parted slightly, but nothing came out. He didn’t even know I was here.

I could let it happen. I could sit still, do nothing, and it would be over in minutes. No more damage. No more choices. No more pain—for either of us. Just quiet.

My heart was pounding, but I didn’t move.

I looked down at the wound. The blood kept coming.

This guy-

Cut me open.

Starved me.

Destroyed me emotionally.

But—

He was also nice to me.

Offered me a home.

Cooked for me.

Saved me from jumping to my death, from being sold to a bunch of crazy alphas.

He was there when I was mean or a crybaby or a brat.

I—

I know he only does it to make sure I don’t run. That his plan of natural selection will happen. And yet-

I grabbed the piece of glass as I took the sanitary alcohol next to me. I was ready to disinfect around it enough to be able to put pressure, until he came to my mind.

Lior.

My hand hovered over the glass, fingers barely grazing the jagged edge.

I could push it. Just a few inches more. That’s all it would take. He wouldn’t even feel it—not like this. One hard shove and it would be over. Quick. Quiet. And fair, in its own way.

My chest moved rapidly from up to down in a desperate attempt to catch my breath.

My grip tightened on the glass.

But I didn’t push.

Instead, I pressed my palm against it, keeping it still. If it shifted, it could tear through something worse. He was already hanging on by a thread.

My hands moved fast now—tight, angry, focused. I poured the disinfectant around the wound. He twitched. Just barely.

Then I ripped off my shirt, wrapped it tight around his torso, knotting it hard just below the ribs to hold the glass steady.

If I would kill him now, what difference would it make?

I would just become a monster just like him.

He lost a lot of blood. He needs a transfer—

Or enough adrenaline for his heart to pump.

But what could provoke such a quickness of the heartbeat, balancing on the rope of a heart attack?

Only one thing.

Pheromones. To the point of an overdose.

But how should I know the right dosage? What if he moves and he destabilizes the piece of glass?

F-ck.

I got on top of him.

I straddled his lower back, placing my knees wide to anchor myself, trying not to put weight on him. I could feel the rise and fall of his body beneath me—

Uncharastically weak.

I reached for his wrists and brought them gently forward, pinning them to the ground.

I held them firmly, my fingers curling around his with just enough pressure to keep him still.

And I let out all the pheromones I could.

I felt it instantly. His pulse jumped under my grip. His back tensed. Then he inhaled sharply, and everything changed.

He jolted awake like someone had dumped fire into his veins.

His body arched, sudden and uncontrolled, and he let out a broken gasp, like he couldn’t get enough air. His skin flushed almost instantly—too hot, too fast—his muscles tightening under me as the heat hit him.

"Don’t move."

"Luther.."

His whimpering voice echoed against the wall.

He squirmed beneath me, frantic and feverish, like he didn’t know where he was, like his body had slipped into panic before his mind could catch up. His breath came in quick, shallow bursts, mouth open, gasping, trembling under my hands.

His legs shifted beneath me, his back arching again, and I had to press down—harder this time—just to keep him from jerking the glass inside him. He didn’t cry out, didn’t say a word. He just writhed, overwhelmed, like his body was no longer his own.

I gritted my teeth, trying to stay steady, trying not to let him move. But he was burning up beneath me, and I knew exactly what he was feeling.

He entered his rut.

His pheromones exploded, mingling with mine into an unbreathable air.

"Luther..."

"You-you have a large piece of glass in your back. If you move, you will probably die."

"Luther..."

He kept saying it, over and over, each repetition weaker, more strained, like his body was unraveling from the inside out.

His breath hitched, then turned into shallow pants. Rapid, uneven. His chest pressed against the floor with each inhale, like breathing had become a fight. The flush on his skin deepened, sweat beading at his temples, and he squirmed beneath me, restless and fevered.

"Emiliano, please, stop moving."

"I want to kiss you."

"If I let go of your hands, you’ll die."

"Please kiss me, puppy. Please..."

I clenched my jaw, but it didn’t help. My skin prickled. My pulse spiked. His scent was pulling at something deep in my chest, low and burning, inching past every wall I’d spent years building.

I was losing grip.

My hands trembled around his wrists, not from effort, but from the itch—the overwhelming need to touch more, to lean in, to taste the sweat on his skin. My eyes locked on the side of his face, lips parted, breath hot against the floor. I wanted to kiss him. Badly.

I bit down on the inside of my cheek, hard.

"Emiliano, control yourself. Please, I don’t want you to die."

"I will die if you don’t kiss me now. Please, Luther, please!"

"Promise me you will stay still. I will kiss you if you don’t move."

"Yes. I promise."

But as soon as I got off of him to reach his lips, he grabbed me violently, pinning me under him.

The glass shifted.

And he just—

Yanked it out.