My Father Sold Me to a bunch of Crazy Alphas
Chapter 84: The Blooming Flower ( Emiliano’s POV )

Chapter 84: The Blooming Flower ( Emiliano’s POV )

"Would you marry me?"

The words left out without a second thought. That was the perfect solution to all the anxiety I’ve carried for the last few weeks.

Marriage. The perfect shackles.

Except Luther doesn’t seem eager to say yes.

But that’s ok.

After all, for such a decision to be taken in my favor, I already knew I had to put in the work.

I traced my tongue from his earlobe, down his jaw. My mouth lingered there just for a moment before nibbling softly on his Adam’s Apple, earning me a breathless, muffled groan.

"You don’t know what you’re saying! It’s just the pheromones talking..."

"No. I know. Please?"

Placing short kisses on his collarbone, I could hear his heartbeat speeding frantically. He didn’t push me or stop me. He just covered his face, trying to conceal the fact that he was losing his reason.

Because of me.

Because of what I was doing.

My hand was already on his chest, and I didn’t move it—I pressed down a little harder, feeling how solid he was under my palm. His skin was warm, smooth, just a little damp. I ran my fingers across it slowly, not because I was trying to be careful, but because I didn’t want to miss any part of him. Every inch of him felt too good, too much. I needed more. I couldn’t get enough.

I leaned in and let my mouth follow where my hand had been. I kissed him there—right in the center of his chest—and didn’t pull away. My lips stayed against his skin. I could feel his heartbeat. I opened my mouth, not wide, just enough to taste him, to feel the heat of him on my tongue. I kissed him again, harder this time. Then again. I didn’t care if I was being too much.

He was breathing faster. I could feel it every time his chest rose under me. I moved my hand lower, then up again, then across, like I couldn’t decide where to land. I was shaking a little. My mouth stayed on him, just moving—kissing, sucking, tasting—never still. I didn’t want to pull back. I couldn’t.

He still wasn’t saying anything, and it made everything feel louder—his breath, my breath, my mouth on his skin, my hand dragging across his chest like I was starving for it. I was. I didn’t want to wait. I didn’t want to be careful. I just wanted to stay right there, touching him, kissing him, holding him like maybe that would be enough to keep him close.

I looked up for half a second, just to see his face, to see if he wanted this as badly as I did. I didn’t even give him time to answer. I went right back to him—my hand splayed wide, my mouth open, kissing, licking, breathing him in like I couldn’t help it.

I didn’t want to stop. I didn’t care if I was going too far. I just wanted more.

He shifted and groaned as I moved further and further down, but when I reached his stomach—

I stopped.

His flower. Not the whole thing—just a few thick petals curling out from the center, like it had started blooming but never finished. Almost like it was still growing. The edges were blurred, like ink bleeding just a little too far.

I stared at it. My hand hovered next to it without touching. I wanted to ask about it, but my mouth wouldn’t work right. He shifted again under me, like he felt me looking. His stomach jumped, like it was too sensitive now, like every breath made it worse.

I reached out and ran two fingers along the edge of the mark. His back arched. Not a lot, just enough to press into my touch. His breath caught.

The petals weren’t fully open, but they looked like they were trying to be.

I didn’t move my hand away. I couldn’t.

"You’re blooming—", I mumbled breathlessly.

A short expression of terror conquered Luther’s face.

He looked down. Saw it. Froze.

His breath hitched sharp in his throat, and all the heat drained from his face.

He shoved my hand away like it burned.

He just backed away, still half-naked, clutching his side like he could hold the petals shut.

"No. No, no, no, no.", he mumbled to himself, pushing the skin together as if that could close the flower.

I reached for a syringe.

I picked up the syringe from the tray. Just a clean draw—quick, careful. I wasn’t even really thinking about it. My focus was still on the way the petals had shifted under his skin. I needed to know what was happening. That’s all it was. A sample. Nothing more.

But when I turned back to him, he was staring at me like I’d just pulled a knife.

His mouth opened, but nothing came out at first. His eyes dropped to the syringe, then to my face, then back again. He was frozen, like he didn’t know whether to run or scream. His hands had curled into fists.

"Puppy?", I asked.

He backed away.

"Why are you so terrified, pup? It’s just a blood sample. I’m not going to hurt you."

He shook his head hard, chest rising fast.

His voice didn’t come out of his throat as if the fear was strangling him. Only the tears started to flow abundantly.

Why was he crying?

And why did it make me so furious to see him like that?

I stared at him, trying to figure out what the hell was going on. Then it dawned on me.

We were in the basement.

In the middle of my collection.

Dozens of sealed jars. Neatly labeled. Organized by size. Some small, some wide, all floating in a clear solution.

Some framed on the wall. Preserved.

"Luther, I am not going to hurt you. Stop acting like that!"

My voice came out a bit too threatening to be reassuring. I was messing it all up.

As my wife deepened down in fear, his pheromones became weaker and weaker, leaving me more and more in the agony of the fresh wound.

He was shaking now. Chest bare. Eyes full of something I couldn’t clean up. And that mark on his stomach—those petals—looked a little more closed than before.

I didn’t say anything else. I just stood there.

Still holding the syringe.

"Why are you acting like that? We were enjoying each other a moment ago..."

"Stay away from me!"

"Why would you think I would want to hurt you? You’re my wife!"

"You’re a psychotic demented person who starved me and used me every chance you could! And now you want to taxidermy me as well!"

"How can you say that? I—"

"I remember what you said when you brought me into this room for the first time! You said you’ll play the long game and you’ll have me blooming just like the rest of the poor b-st-rds you have hanging here! And you nearly did!"

"Luther, it’s not like—"

"Stop. You won! You f-cking won! I am damaged enough to bloom for you!"

"Please, Luther, I have to take the sample! Your flower is closing!"

Luther clenched his stomach tightly.

"Kill me first!"

"What?"

"You’ve heard me. If you want my flower, kill me first. I’ll put up a good fight!"

"Puppy, please. I’ll just get the blood quickly and then we’ll go back where we left off."

He stared at me like I was something cornered and dangerous. His chest rose too fast, shoulders tense, every muscle in his arms drawn tight like he was ready to swing. His eyes darted from my face to the syringe in my hand, then to the jars on the shelves behind me.

Rage twisted through him—his jaw clenched, his nostrils flared, but beneath it all was something worse.

Fear.

Raw and shaking.

Not the kind you could reason with. His fingers curled and uncurled, like he couldn’t decide whether to fight or run. He looked like he wanted to do both.

"I’ll just take the sample quickly.", I mumbled more to myself than to him.

I moved fast. No warning. I gripped the syringe tighter, aimed low, just the thigh—clean entry, quick draw, in and out before he could—

The door slammed open so hard it shook the walls.

I barely had time to turn my head.

Killian stood in the doorway, breathing hard, eyes wide. His face was pale, mouth open like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. For half a second, no one moved.

Then he saw the syringe in my hand. Saw Luther—his leg bare, frozen, half-backed into the table. Saw me, arm raised, needle in.

He didn’t ask questions.

He hit me like a truck.

I flew sideways, crashed hard into the metal shelving. A jar shattered near my head. My shoulder caught the edge of the frame. Pain shot up through my neck, sharp and blinding.

I hit the floor and stayed there, dazed.

How?

How did he get in?

As if he heard my thoughts, Luther said loudly:

"I pressed the button to unlock the passage before you entered your rut."

"You never trusted me..."

"Thank God. Look at you! I cured your wound, saved you from death, made sure you were not in pain, and I even believed you for a moment, only for you to be ready to—"

He didn’t continue. It wasn’t necessary.

I already knew he was referring to the jars. To the syringe. To my impatient behavior.

Killian covered my puppy and lifted him in his arms.

As they walked out the door, Luther’s last words were:

"I never want to see you again!"