The Courtship of Power

by zinnyzanny

Summary:

The world churns in perpetual conflict, fractured further by designations that dictate the purpose of every Sinner.

A grieving king, stripped of his lover and child, rules the damned with a merciless hand.

An Overlord whispers through the airwaves, weaving influence into every broadcast as he constructs a kingdom within the very bones of Hell.

And a smiling usurper dreams of tearing himself free from the old, suffocating traditions that bind him. A new era waits on the horizon, and he intends to seize it with both hands.

Notes:

I've been aching to make a more politically-driven drama revolving around the concept of 'Omegaverse'. And I decided to use Alastor as my pawn to maneuver through a world where he's at a distinct disadvantage. It also helped that I wanted to explore this with an asexual character - as I'm asexual myself. And without the the advantage of potions/medicines to conceal his respective identity, nor the power of a staff in hand - Alastor has no choice but to use his brains as opposed to his brawn to outmaneuver his opponents. This is meant to challenge me a bit writing-wise and planning-wise. I've got an outline of where I want the story to go. This chapter serves as more or less a 'starting point'. With it requiring roughly a century for Alastor to work his way toward a certain goal.

Chapter 1: 1

He had not arrived in Hell as an Overlord. No deal had been struck on his behalf, no careful preparations arranged before his plunge into the infernal abyss of the Pride Ring. His death had been abrupt and humiliating in its suddenness - and thus he appeared in Hell without ceremony. No fanfare, no ritual, merely the twitch of shadows as his new form settled into place. His features warped into a mockery of the manner in which he died, his human flesh contorted and rebuilt around his eternal spirit into something more suited to the nature of a sinner.

 

Alastor began with nothing. As all sinners did upon being cast into the overpopulated, ever-hungry metropolis that sprawled beneath Hell’s choking sky. He was just another face among the hordes, greeted with suspicion, amusement, and thinly veiled contempt. Hell had no space for the soft or the slow, no compassion for those who stumbled. It devoured and exploited the weak once they were identified among the bemused masses. 

 

Had he arrived as a Beta - entirely ordinary, unremarkable and sterile - he would have been forced to claw his way up the hierarchy brick by bloodied brick. The masses would have overlooked him entirely, their eyes glancing across the sharp-tongued deer that boasted a perpetual grin, a sharp tongue and delicate hooves. 

 

But his designation had survived death. When he emerged in Hell, he carried with him a scent that curled through the air like a siren's melody - subtle, but impossible to ignore. A far cry from the dull, middling odors of the majority. And it was not something that could be concealed. Hell’s air seemed to amplify it, subduing every artificial fragrance he applied and heightening the truth of him instead of masking it.

 

It was entirely inescapable.

 

A blessing and a curse in equal measure.

 

Alastor had long ago learned the dangers that accompanied being a minority and a pretty-faced Omega on top of that. Hell clung to archaic ideals with rabid devotion: usefulness defined by biology, instinct interpreted as destiny. They placed him neatly back into the same suffocating box he’d clawed against in life.

 

How amusing, he supposed, that even damnation demanded the same performance.

 

Hell’s laws were tenuous at best, its order a thin membrane stretched over chaos. Omegas were treated as pawns in the unending game of dominance. Consorts, bearers, mates, toys - roles heaped upon the shoulders of the select few whom occupied the land of the damned. Even his scent was a lure: predators drawn toward conquest, opportunists toward possession.

 

But he had played this game before.

 

And he was far better at it now.

 

He would weaponize their expectations, as he always had. Hell demanded suffering; he would meet it with teeth bared behind a polite smile.

 

What other choice did he have?

 

❧

 

The first year in the Pride Ring was - blessedly - uneventful. Alastor kept his distance, feigning indifference while observing every hierarchy and unwritten rule with razor-sharp precision. He memorized alliances, rivalries, power balances, emerging threats, and silent wars unfolding beneath forced civility.

 

He watched sinners forge pacts in alleyways and the desperate and needy simper before their superiors, wide-eyed and hopeful. He catalogued the scents of dangerous individuals, categorized the rhythms of their movements, and learned which of them would eventually rise from the mediocrity of the majority and ascend within the curious hierarchy of Hell. 

 

None of them earned even a flicker of his true interest.

 

Sanctuary came from an unexpected place - Cannibal Town. An established settlement, picturesque in the way a smiling skull might be. Orderly. Controlled. Full of sinners who carved out a way of life with remarkable discipline for Hell. It was indisputably progressive by the realm’s miserable standards.

 

They welcomed him and he quickly found work as their Overlord’s assistant. His respective sex easing his way. Alastor's flourish, charm and his spiced fragrance putting them at ease. 

 

A temporary arrangement. A place to bide time. Tedious, yes, but tolerable. And, in its own way, oddly satisfying. Routine offered structure, and structure offered clarity. It did not compare to the thrill of broadcasting his voice to the masses in his old life, but it kept his mind sharp and his intent precisely honed.

 

Eternity stretched before him. There was no real need to rush.

 

A little “dilly-dallying” harmed no one.

 

❧

 

“The radio?”

 

Rosie sipped her tea with dainty precision. The drink was over sweet, its cloying scent mingling with her natural aroma of freshly trimmed grass - a fragrance that marked her unmistakably as a Beta, despite her rise to Overlord status.

 

She was swathed in expertly woven maroon fabrics, the muted tones complementing her pale-gray skin. Setting her cup back onto its platter - perfectly centered - she regarded Alastor with hollow, calculating eyes.

 

“You want to become a radio host?”

 

“I most certainly do,” Alastor replied brightly.

 

His vest and trousers were tailored in a style she found appropriate for an Omega. The fit emphasized his narrow waist, the elegant curve of his hips that declared him suitable for child-bearing. Rosie approved of the aesthetic while disapproving of his occasional attempts to dress above his station. Her corrections gentle yet firm. 

 

“You do good work here, dear,” she said. “The customers fancy you and that sharp wit of yours.”

 

“Well,” Alastor answered, adjusting his posture primly, “I do aim to please.”

 

He sipped his tea - hot, unsweetened, bitter. A pleasing contrast to her saccharine brew. After setting the cup aside, he folded his hands neatly in his lap.

 

“But I believe it’s time I consider my future in Hell,” he said. “I fear I’ll stagnate otherwise.”

 

Rosie’s painted lips thinned.

 

“You’re an Omega, Alastor,” she began, gently but firmly.

 

The edges of his smile tightened. Only slightly.

 

“I’m aware,” he said.

 

His tone cooled. Rosie’s eyes narrowed, sensing it.

 

“You’re safe, Alastor,” she continued. “With us. It’s a miracle you found your way here before someone snatched you off those dainty lil' hooves of yours.”

 

His smile did not falter - but it strained. Rosie’s gaze flicked to his eyes, where the smallest betrayal of irritation shimmered beneath the surface.

 

“Allow me the opportunity to explain myself, Rosie,” he said.

 

He dipped his head, lowered his eyelids - small acts of deference, perfectly timed. Appropriate for an Omega, and therefore powerful when wielded by one who understood the strings they tugged.

 

Betas often delighted in such gestures, even when they recognized them as calculated. Rosie was no exception. She indulged in the illusion that he belonged to her in some soft, unspoken manner. An unclaimed Omega was a rare thing. And he made for quite the lovely ornament whenever she was granted the opportunity to show him off. 

 

Alastor allowed it.

 

It cost him nothing.

 

And such illusions, he knew, could be useful later.

 

The Omega carried himself like one of Rosie’s own - graceful, deferential, perfectly mannered - but behind his pleasant smile, his thoughts simmered with far darker ambitions. He intended to rise, to carve a place of his own into Hell’s hierarchy, not as some obedient ornament but as a power to be feared. Yet such elevation required patience, calculated steps, and the illusion of support from those already established.

 

So he opened his mouth to speak, his expression mild, his tone honey-sweet, declaring his intentions with a purposeful openness meant to soothe rather than provoke.

 

“The life of a radio host is… covert,” he began, tentative. “Listeners remain entirely unaware of my face, my scent, or even my name. I could present a pseudonym to the public. Something memorable. I was considering ‘The Radio Demon.’”

 

Rosie lifted a hand - an elegant, sharpened gesture bidding him to pause.

 

“‘The Radio Demon,’” she echoed, brow arching.

 

He nodded.

 

“I see.”

 

Silence unfurled between them, contemplative and cold. Her lips tightened ever so slightly, a faint pinch to her expression revealing her displeasure. Alastor noted every twitch, every shift. He did not dare interrupt; instead, he mirrored her stillness, projecting patience while his mind raced ahead and reshaped his plan depending on the direction her judgment fell.

 

“And where,” Rosie asked at last, tone deceptively light, “would you source the material required to run this little show of yours?”

 

“I intend to outsource,” Alastor replied smoothly. “I already possess the talent. I need only showcase it.”

 

Incredulity flickered through her dark gaze.

 

“On your own?”

 

“With your support.”

 

Rosie laughed - short, sharp and derisive. Alastor responded with a polite smile, though inside he felt the scrape of irritation. She tittered behind her hand, as though he had told a charming joke. When her amusement faded, a faint sneer curled at the edge of her lips.

 

“How very assumptive of you, my deer.”

 

The condescension in her voice was deliberate, heavy.

 

“Alastor,” she continued, “do you understand why Overlords are typically Alphas?”

 

“You,” he interjected warmly, “being the exception, of course.”

 

Rosie preened at the flattery, a soft hum slipping from her as she lifted her chin. Only then did she continue, entirely satisfied.

 

“Indeed. Alphas and Omegas were minorities above, and they remain such below. Their souls and biology set them apart. Alphas are predisposed to certain forms of strength - certain instincts, if you will. They possess natural talents that place them at the forefront. They are the faces the world sees. The voices that command attention. The ones who control and influence the masses.”

 

Alastor listened, still as a statue, smile unmoving. He understood this entirely, but to interrupt would be to surrender ground - and he planned to cede nothing.

 

“Omegas,” Rosie said, her tone now taking on a didactic, almost priestly cadence, “were sculpted by divine design to serve as companions. To provide comfort and continuation. You are creatures best seen and rarely heard.”

 

Her words rang with the authority of someone who believed them implicitly.

 

Rosie had afforded him liberties: a voice in her presence, freedom to roam her territory without fear, an existence unmarred by the predatory pressures of the wider Pride Ring. She sheltered him, valued him and protected him from a world that hungered for Omega flesh and Omega submission.

 

But protection had strings.

 

They always did.

 

And Alastor could feel those strings tightening around him - familiar restraints, cloying expectations, the suffocating insistence that he remain small, decorative and manageable.

 

He chafed beneath them. Quietly. Carefully.

 

He tolerated them because they were useful.

 

And because for now - only for now - Rosie believed she held him safely in her grasp, Alastor allowed the illusion to persist. She did not know, could not know, that he intended to wrench himself free of her influence the moment it became advantageous. True independence required patience, and patience he had in abundance.

 

“I - ”

 

He barely formed the first syllable before Rosie cut him off with a sharp, chastising tut, soft but slicing in its dismissal.

 

“Enough, Alastor.”

 

Her voice was smooth, but laced with iron. 

 

“Know your place. I may not be an Alpha, but you remain under my protection. Appreciate the freedoms afforded to you because of my intervention. Continue your work here. Remain grateful. Or cast yourself into the abyss and hope - and pray - that one of my peers takes mercy on you.”

 

He did not flinch outwardly. But inside, indignation writhed like a trapped thing. A part of him snarled at the reminder. He was not bound to her by contract or oath. No collar, no brand, no claim marked his skin.

 

And yet - ... 

 

The truth was undeniable; in this territory, under her shadow, he was given liberties nearly unheard of for an unclaimed Omega. Freedom to wander. Freedom to speak. And freedom to exist without someone attempting to tear him from the ground by scent alone.

 

Rosie was generous. Dangerously so. And she was not wrong to remind him of the precariousness of his situation.

 

He had little choice but to acquiesce… and wait. And wait. And fucking wait.

 

Alastor should not expected assistance in pursuing his ambitions. Nor acceptance. Omegas did not receive such things. They bartered for scraps. They groveled for space. They survived through cleverness where strength was denied them.

 

He swallowed the bitter truth and bowed his head.

 

“Of course, Rosie,” he said softly. “I am not ungrateful. Forgive me.”

 

Her pleasure in his submission was immediate, palpable. He felt her gaze warm with proprietorial satisfaction.

 

“You’re forgiven, pet,” she crooned. “Now be good and finish your drink.”

 

He obeyed. His movements were stiff but practiced, the grace of one who had endured such rituals many times before. He lifted the cup and swallowed the cooling tea as Rosie resumed speaking - her voice almost musical.

 

He smiled where she could see.

 

And behind that smile, something dark and patient coiled tighter, waiting for the day he would shed this role - and remind Hell exactly what an Omega could become when he stopped pretending to be harmless.

 

❧

 

His home was a splendid thing - an isolated building neatly wedged between a mail room and a butcher. A convenient arrangement. His meals were delivered directly to him, yet another form of compensation for his usefulness. Savory cuts carved from the flesh of fellow denizens, neatly sliced, still steaming, always presented with a kind of reverence.

 

Alastor preferred his meals raw, warm, and fresh. He accepted the parcel in quiet thanks, the thick wrapping paper already seeping with heat. But he couldn’t find it in himself to enjoy the offering today. Irritation simmered beneath his carefully maintained exterior, threatening to curdle into something uglier.

 

Once within the safety of his home - one of the few places where his privacy was nominally honored - he stripped off his restrictive vest. It hugged too tightly around his ribs and waist, a garment chosen for him rather than by him. The laces came undone in moments beneath sharp, deft fingers.

 

“'Best seen and not heard,' she says,” he groused under his breath, mockingly.

 

And there it was again. That familiar frustration that had stalked him through life and continued its chase into death. A restless gnawing, demanding outlet. Tobacco and bitter alcohol had long become his means of dulling it - of tolerating the humiliations and conditions pressed upon him.

 

Patience.

 

All he required was patience.

 

A slow, deliberate kind. The kind that starved out one’s enemies while they still believed themselves in control.

 

He set his meal aside for later, appetite soured, and drifted into his elegantly furnished living room. Every piece of décor had been selected by Rosie - her silent mark of ownership etched into every corner. Even her scent remained a constant. As though it had been woven into the very fabric of the furniture's material.

 

He was her Omega, after all. Her carefully kept, heavily monitored prize she had stumbled upon.

 

Though she could never claim him the way she truly desired. And Alastor was anything but oblivious to that truth.

 

Not oblivious at all.

 

Alastor sank heavily into the too-soft couch, the cushions swallowing him in a way that felt almost mocking. He lowered his head into his hands, fingers curling into his hair as he tugged sharply at the roots - painful and grounding as several strands tore free and were almost immediately replaced. 

 

“Think, Alastor. Think.”

His own voice sounded hollow in the quiet of 'his' home, the silence pressing against him like a judgment. A cage with velvet walls was still a cage, and he could feel every inch of it.

 

So he forced himself to stillness. To breathe. To plan.

 

He would climb his way to the top - inch by inch, tooth by tooth. It would be painful. It would be unbearably slow. Every step would require precision and a predator’s patience.

 

But it would be inevitable.

 

And when the moment came, when the last shackle slipped loose, Hell itself would finally learn what an Omega who did not know his place was truly capable of. 

Chapter 2: 2

Alastor had begrudgingly returned to his daily routine in the wake of their conversation. Outwardly, he seemed compliant - quiet in his acceptance, careful not to betray the ceaseless machinery grinding behind his pleasant smile. His mind, however, was anything but still. The exchange with Rosie had only confirmed what he already understood: if he wished to rise, he would need an ally of real power. Someone willing to look past the confines of his biology.

 

On paper, the plan was elegant. He would “outsource,” just as he’d promised her, stepping beyond the suffocating safety of her territory in search of a benefactor elsewhere. Someone strong enough to deter Rosie’s meddling. Someone useful enough to serve their purpose before he inevitably outgrew - and outmaneuvered - them.

 

Or, failing that, someone malleable enough to be manipulated.

 

Clever Omegas had managed such feats before. The precedent existed, however buried.

 

But even in fantasy, the plan felt precarious. An Omega wandering into foreign domains was little more than prey presenting its throat. And the chances of encountering an Alpha - much less an Overlord - willing to disregard his designation and consider an actual partnership was laughably small. They preferred pliant, decorative creatures that clung to them. Things that bowed instinctively and offered soft obedience.

 

His odds were negligible, pathetically so in this era. Hell presently clung to its hierarchy with a fervor that rivaled the living world. Its caste system was ancient, rigid, endlessly self-replicating. A creature like him pushing against it was almost comedic. And while he was spared the racial prejudice tied to his inherited features, his biology still undermined him.

 

But Alastor knew something most did not: nothing remained immutable forever. Cultural norms shifted slowly but inevitably. Views on race, beliefs and social roles had crumbled before; entire societies had even reinvented themselves over time.

 

He need only wait - just enough to appear idle, never enough to become complacent. He had no intention of spending eternity as Rosie’s prized, empty-minded puppet. He would dance to her tune, yes. But only until he found the scissors.

 

And in the meantime, he listened.

 

Listening was always his greatest talent. He gathered information in slivers and scraps, gleaned from idle chatter and careless tongues. His questions were light, curious and ultimately innocent enough to avoid scrutiny. But every answer was catalogued with precision.

 

❧

 

Days bled into weeks, weeks eroded into months and eventually years. Rosie seemed perfectly content within her comfortable dominion and scarcely ventured beyond it. And Alastor, ever the dutiful companion, played his role with flawless precision. He attended to her needs, mirrored her expectations, and wore the mask of the appreciative Omega who accepted the rigid hierarchy he had been forced into in both life and death with a strange, sharp-toothed gusto.

 

There was comfort in the solitude she allowed him outside their daily midday meals - thin pockets of freedom where he could breathe, think, and sharpen his ambitions. And amid the suffocating politeness of his existence, he found a peculiar easing of the constant strain through an unexpected friendship.

 

Niffty was an oddity in every sense. Quirky, jittery, and delightfully unhinged. She constantly swung between excitable industriousness and bouts of near-manic instability. Most would have dismissed her as little more than a nuisance, a Beta with frayed nerves and too much energy to contain. But Alastor found her chaos strangely… refreshing. She did not peer at him through the lens of biology or caste. She did not regard him as an Omega to be managed, coddled, or subdued. She simply saw him as a friend, a presence she enjoyed without pretense or expectation.

 

Still, he remained mindful. Niffty’s lack of restraint could easily grate on Rosie’s nerves, and Betas were far too easily deemed disposable. They were afforded freedoms he himself was barred from, yet held none of the protection. A misstep from her could cost far more than she realized.

 

And so Alastor kept a gentle, watchful eye on her madness. The deer curiously fond, and acutely aware that in a world dictated by power and biology the fragile, unfiltered sincerity of a friendship like theirs was a rare and dangerously precious thing. He’d gently direct her, an expert at managing her little bouts. She’d even taken up space within his humble abode, the Omega not minding her presence within the boundaries of his home.

 

She kept his home immaculate without him ever needing to lift a finger. Niffty’s fixation on cleaning bordered on compulsion - likely a leftover shard from her mortal life, a lingering affliction that refused to fade even after death had devoured her. She moved through his space with sporadic energy and uncanny precision, scrubbing and straightening as though the world might fracture if she paused long enough to think.

 

Alastor found her little quirks and neutral designation useful. More than useful, in fact.

 

He relied on her to gather information from beyond Rosie’s domain, a task no Omega - certainly not one under Rosie’s “care” - could attempt without drawing unwanted attention. Niffty returned with neatly folded newspapers and scavenged clippings. Media wasn’t forbidden per se, but no real delivery or distribution system existed within Cannibal Town. If one wanted news, one had to acquire it deliberately.

 

He would greedily devour each page provided to him, his eyes skimming every column, every crude illustration, every rumor about the shifting terrain of Hell. His mind catalogued it all: the state of the hierarchy, the movements of Overlords, the subtle changes in alliances. Lately, however, one undeniable truth emerged.

 

Hell had grown stagnant.

 

Beyond the usual territorial skirmishes between Overlords - ritualistic violence that meant little in the grand scheme - nothing significant had shifted. No dramatic upheaval. No unexpected power vacuums ripe for exploitation. Just the same tired machinations turning endlessly in the dark.

 

Niffty would help him tuck away the papers afterward, and he would mull over the information as he prepared tea for them both. A small ritual, almost domestic - two sinners simply enjoying one another’s company.

 

Recently, his attention snagged on scattered and old reports concerning Hell’s former royal family. Once, it seemed, the Pride Ring had boasted a triad: an Alpha King, an Omega Queen, and an Omega Princess. But centuries before Alastor’s arrival, the royal line had fractured. The Queen and her daughter had ascended to Heaven.

 

It was this great change that nearly dragged the entirety of the afterlife into war.

 

The King, incandescent with grief and possessive fury, attempted to drag his family back by force. But the Archangel Adam opposed him, and their clash left a permanent scar across the Pride Ring - a wound permanently etched into the very bedrock of Hell.

 

The details were infuriatingly incomplete, blurred by rumor and propaganda. But the end result was clear enough: Adam lost. Captured, bound, and abandoned in the depths of Lucifer’s domain, where the King twisted the angel into something monstrous. Something obedient.

 

An ‘Executioner’.

 

Old news, perhaps - but relevant.

 

Lucifer now sat as the sole monarch of the Pride Ring, a desolate tyrant ruling with iron certainty. He demanded obedience. Those who defied him met their end through loyalist zealots or his Executioner’s hand - publicly torn apart in displays meant to reinforce the unbreakable nature of his rule.

 

Alastor noted something else as well.

 

The laws governing Alphas, Betas, and Omegas had hardened significantly after the Queen and Princess departed. Before the King’s grief solidified into cruelty, Omegas had apparently enjoyed far more freedom and comparatively less scrutiny.

 

But that era was long gone and Hell was still paying the price.

 

❧

 

“Who’s the bitch?”

 

Alastor froze the moment he stepped through the door of Rosie’s Emporium - stalled mid-stride by the crude question and the soft chime of the entry bell. His eyes adjusted quickly, taking in the shop’s familiar interior. Everything remained exactly as it should be: shelves still half-stocked, merchandise stacked in neat piles awaiting arrangement. It was early - too early for anyone to be here.

 

And yet someone was.

 

A hulking figure loomed at the counter, shoulders hunched beneath the low ceiling. Dark, draconic wings curled tightly against his back, the membranes twitching. A thick, scaled tail slithered from beneath tattered remnants of what had once been holy robes. Garments now twisted into a grotesque parody of their former sanctity.

 

The masked face shifted toward him, metal catching the dim light as the creature sized up the newly arrived Omega. Alastor only tipped his head politely, that smile frozen in place, though his pulse thrummed beneath the surface.

 

This was unexpected.

 

Rosie’s expression was stone-still, her posture rigid as she turned her head ever so slightly to acknowledge him. The sharpness in the air made sense a moment later.

 

“This is Alastor, sir,” she said, voice tight with a level of deference he had never once heard her use.

 

The Omega’s right ear twitched. Rosie bowed her head, the action deep and an open display of submission.

 

And he understood why.

 

The scent hit him fully - thick, suffocating Alpha musk, saturated with brimstone and coal. Heavy enough to choke on. A predator’s scent.

 

Hell’s Executioner.

 

“Well shit.”

 

Adam was a fallen and twisted creature. Shackled in service to the King. A winged beast carved down to obedience and brutality - Lucifer’s carefully constructed weapon of choice. No one dared speak the truth of what he was. A slave. A powerful slave. But a slave nonetheless.

 

“You’ve got a bitch of your own?” Adam scoffed at Rosie. “How the fuck did you manage that?”

 

Alastor slipped his hands behind his back, keeping his posture decorous beneath the Alpha’s scrutiny. He blinked slowly, offering an image of compliant calm as the two exchanged curt words.

 

It did not last.

 

Adam’s crimson gaze slid back to him - heavy and appraising. With a single crooked finger, he summoned the Omega forward.

 

Alastor obeyed instantly. His nature compelled him to obey - obey - obey.

 

Imperceptively, he gritted his teeth.

 

A spindly, clawed digit hooked beneath his chin, tilting his head up. Adam turned his face left, then right, examining him like livestock. Like property.

 

“Oh, yeah,” the Executioner breathed, voice dipping into a feral purr. A leer spread beneath the mask as Alastor met his gaze before lowering it politely. “This one’s good. I can tell. Fuckable. Pretty, too. I’m loving the look.”

 

Heat crawled down Alastor’s spine, but he kept his expression serene.

 

Adam withdrew his hand and turned fully to Rosie, whose eyes narrowed even as she kept her head respectfully lowered.

 

“Both of you will present yourselves to King Lucifer,” Adam ordered, flatly. “All Overlords are expected in three days. You’ll receive a formal summons with exact time and location. Is that understood?”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

Rosie dipped into a curtsy.

 

Adam looked back to Alastor once more. Sharp teeth glinted. His tongue dragged slowly across them.

 

“You’ll be seeing me again, little doe.”

 

With a guttural chuckle, his form unraveled into shadows - inky tendrils sliding across the floorboards before vanishing entirely. His stench lingered behind like a physical weight, saturating the room long after his departure.

 

Equal parts cloying and disruptive.

 

Alastor remained perfectly still, smile thin and unmoving as the last trace of Adam’s presence finally began to fade.

 

❧

 

Rosie hadn’t reopened the shop after Adam’s unexpected visit. She simply hung a sign announcing its closure for the rest of the week. They needed time to prepare. And by unfortunate chance, Alastor had been chosen as her companion for their journey to Lucifer’s kingdom. After decades of being successfully hidden away, he’d been glimpsed by another. Now he was to be presented before the upper echelons of their barbaric society.

 

The prospect thrilled him as much as it unsettled him.

 

It would be his chance, perhaps, to leave a favorable impression on those powerful enough to lift him from mediocrity. But the price such beings would demand of an Omega would be far steeper than anything Rosie ever asked of him. He risked being drawn in, consumed, and reshaped by those eager to exploit every biological shortcoming his designation offered.

 

He was given three days to prepare - an insultingly small span of time to rehearse conversations and steady his frayed nerves. Rosie coached him as best she could, though he noticed the strain beneath her calm exterior. Tiny cracks revealed the anxiety she attempted to hide, and with good reason. It wasn’t unheard of for Lucifer to cull Overlords on a whim.

 

Everyone feared their terrible king.

 

❧

 

Niffty reacted poorly to the lingering scent Adam had left on him. Even the briefest proximity - and the slightest touch - had been enough for the Alpha’s signature to cling stubbornly to his skin and fur. She bared her teeth in open disgust as she tugged at his sleeves and collar with quick, irritated motions, muttering her displeasure all the while.

 

“Reeks,” she hissed, genuinely offended. “It reeks, Alastor.”

 

He allowed her to fuss over him without protest, amusement softening his features. She stripped him down with brisk efficiency, depositing the bundled garments into a wooden hamper as though they’d personally wronged her. Beneath the fabric, his lithe, furred form emerged; freckles dusted across his thighs, hips, shoulders, and spine like constellations. He soon eased himself into a steaming, scented bath prepared just for him, sinking into the water infused with soaps meant to neutralize whatever odors clung to him throughout the day.

 

It surprised him, at first, that Adam’s scent persisted - bold and unmistakably Alpha. It clung like a warning, like a claim. But eventually, the water won, and the last of that overpowering signature dissolved.

 

What an interesting fellow, he mused silently.

 

Niffty’s indignant squawking echoed from the next room as he slid deeper into the tub, letting the warmth swallow him. Her voice rose and fell with exaggerated outrage, likely as she scrubbed at his clothing with unnecessary force. He let her fuss; it was easier than attempting to soothe her ruffled nerves.

 

His own thoughts drifted back to the Fallen Angel. Adam’s presence - his posture, his reputation, the cruel shape his fall had carved into him - lingered far longer than his scent. Alastor pieced together what little he knew, the fragments of rumor and the reality he’d witnessed mere moments ago.

 

And then, naturally, his curiosity shifted to Lucifer.

 

How did the king compare to the creature he had remade?

 

To the monster he kept as a weapon?

 

To the being who ruled their world with unchallenged, unrelenting authority?

 

Alastor exhaled slowly, the bathwater rippling around him.

 

He knew so pathetically little.

 

The Omega supposed he could simply rely on his usual approach - maintain the integrity of his personality while presenting whatever polished facade the situation demanded. It had always served him well before.

 

And this was his chance to leave an impression.

 

Once clean and dried, he paused in the quiet of his home. His gaze drifted across the too-soft furniture, the muted hums and clatters of Niffty puttering about and the small personal touches he’d added over the years. Things that made the space feel lived in, even if it was never entirely his.

 

As he stood there, something within him shifted, a faint stirring of discomfort. A prickling sense of foreboding wound itself through his chest, whispering caution. Warning him to tread carefully. To measure each word and every gesture.

 

A single misstep could result in - …

 

In what, exactly?

 

He didn’t know. And that uncertainty, more than anything else, unsettled him.

 

Alastor’s grin became more apparent.

 

He’d manage. As he always had.

 

❧

 

Rosie had selected a slightly more elaborate variant of his usual attire - an effort, however subtle, to reduce the likelihood of him drawing unnecessary attention. His outfit consisted of a dark, long-sleeved top, a red-and-black laced corset vest, and fitted black trousers that clung tightly to his waist, thighs, and softer flesh. He went without shoes, as always; his freshly polished hooves gleamed in the low light. A discreet tailhole had been sewn into the back of the trousers, allowing the small, furred limb to flick freely, its presence both functional and faintly decorative.

 

Niffty had taken it upon herself to tame his hair, muttering under her breath as she dragged a brush through the unruly strands. A lightly scented oil aided her efforts, smoothing down the stubborn wisps without overwhelming the nose.

 

“You look so pretty, Alastor,” she crooned at last, stepping back to admire her work.

 

“Do I?”

 

Alastor let out a soft chuckle, eyes drifting over his reflection in the mirror.

 

“Let’s hope I’m not too pretty, Niffty, my girl. I wouldn’t want the Alphafolk to start falling over themselves.”

 

She tittered, her lone eye gleaming with delighted mischief.

 

He sobered only slightly as he met his own gaze.

 

The smile remained, fixed and eternal.

Chapter 3: 3

Transportation from Rosie’s humble domain came in the form of Hell Horse-drawn carriages. The creatures arrived without need of reins or driver - curiously intelligent beasts of burden that lingered in patient stillness until their passengers boarded. Alastor let his gaze drift over them, fascinated by the sleek musculature beneath their hide, the simmering heat radiating from their bodies, and the strange, ember-like glow in their eyes. He wondered idly about their breeding… and what sort of creature had first decided to break them in.

 

He did not linger long. With one last curious glance, he slipped inside and took his place beside Rosie. When the door clicked shut, the carriage jolted forward, followed by a sudden, weightless lift as the beasts took to the air. A faint grimace tugged at his mouth at the initial lurch, but the discomfort faded as quickly as it came.

 

“How exciting,” he drawled lightly. “A formal arrangement between the Overlords of the Pride Ring and the King of Hell himself.”

 

Rosie shot him a withering look, having easily detected the note of amusement threaded through his voice.

 

“Nervous?”

 

He prodded her deliberately, fishing for reaction.

 

“Seems someone made the grievous mistake of offending Lucifer,” she answered flatly. “Take care you don’t do the same, pet. Don’t think I’m blind to that conniving mind of yours. Play your part and we're sure to get out of this alive.”

 

Alastor hummed softly, a contemplative sound accompanied by the faint dip of his head - acknowledgment wrapped in politeness.

 

“I’m left with the distinct impression that this arrangement isn’t commonplace,” he ventured. “Unless you’ve been sneaking out without me noticing these past few decades?”

 

Rosie crossed her arms tightly over her bosom, gaze shifting toward the window. The sprawling, hellish landscape rolled beneath them - structures rising, falling and reshaping themselves according to the whims of the newest generation of sinners. The architecture was always in flux, an ever-evolving monument to chaos. 

 

“No,” she said at last, tone clipped but honest. “There hasn’t been anything like this since I arrived. Last I heard, the previous ‘formal arrangement’ ended with half the Overlords being publicly executed for the King’s entertainment.”

 

Extortionary. So many lives snuffed out within the span of a few moments, Alastor mused privately.

 

“Well,” he replied, entirely unbothered, “let’s hope we don’t go the way of the dodo.”

 

Rosie exhaled sharply, a faint sigh slipping through the tension and silence settled once more between them as the carriage soared onward.

 

❧

 

The Morningstar Castle made for a grim, foreboding monolith to most who dared look upon it. Petitioners were accepted, yes - but very few willingly sought an audience with the King. His reputation, paired with that of his Executioner, ensured that the majority of Hell’s denizens granted what remained of the royal line a wide and cautious berth. As a result, the castle perpetually teetered on the edge of desolation. The great structure felt less like a seat of power and more like a mausoleum for a dynasty no one wished to disturb.

 

Alastor, however, found it impressive - both at first glance and at the second. His crimson eyes drank in every towering spire, every shadowed balcony and every inch of carved stone that seemed to press down upon the very landscape. He felt the faintest itch beneath his skin; a primal warning that caused tightness to etch itself within the corners of his smile. 

 

The carriage slowed, hooves landing with a thud that reverberated through the ground. Once they came to a stop, Alastor moved at once. He opened the door and stepped out, the chill air wrapping around him. With a crisp turn, he extended his hand to Rosie and offered a light, practiced bow. She accepted his paw and descended with the grace befitting an Overlord. He fell into place behind her - steadfast and attentive  - as several sharply dressed imps glided toward them.

 

Their escorts were severe  and impeccably efficient.

 

The pair was guided through an unnecessarily vast corridor and into an egregiously spacious ballroom. Alastor’s gaze flicked from wall to wall as they approached; the long hallways were dimly lit, the air thick with the faint scent of wax and old stone. Candles served as the only illumination, their flames small and flickering, casting warped and shifting shadows across the walls.

The atmosphere was oppressive by design. His instincts bristled. A subtle tightening in his chest urged him to tread softly, to remain aware, lest he be swallowed whole.

 

Conversation hummed faintly beyond the archway before they entered the ballroom proper. The smell of food - savory and enticingly rich - washed over him, his nostrils flaring despite himself. A lengthy table boasted a decadent spread of cooked flesh and delicate, stuffed  pastries, accompanied by wines both bitter and sweet.

 

“Don’t wander beyond this room, Alastor,” Rosie murmured, repeating the command she had given him thrice already. “But you may mingle, eat and enjoy yourself while you can.”

 

There was, it seemed, no predetermined moment when the King would call the Overlords to the Throne Room. Until then, all were left to languish in a state of uneasy anticipation.

 

Good, he thought, a small, unassuming thrill curling deep in his chest.

 

This provided him a splendid opportunity. It granted him time enough to observe and understand this strange and treacherous world in its full color.

 

Rosie drifted away, already gravitating toward familiar faces. Alastor stood still for a moment longer, scanning the gathered crowd. He breathed deeply, letting scents roll over him in layers.

 

Alphas. Betas. Omegas.

 

All three mingled here, though eventually the crowd naturally split - hierarchy reasserting itself in subtle, instinctual ways. The presence of Alphas dominated the room, their natural signatures rich, layered and imposing. Omegas were fewer, though not rare; many, he realized, likely shared roles parallel to his own.

 

Companions. 

 

He would blend in among them easily.

 

Alastor made the deliberate choice to orbit the familiar before venturing into the unknown. Predictability, after all, was a shield of sorts. And so he drifted toward the cluster of Omegas gathered in a loose circle near one of the long banquet tables. Their eyes flicked toward him as he approached - measuring him, cataloguing his attire, his posture, the careful elegance in each step.

 

Suspicion softened the moment his fragrance reached them and recognition dawned. He was one of theirs. Not a threat. Not competition. Simply another Omega navigating the treacherous landscape of Alpha-dominated politics.

 

He could have slipped quietly into their ranks and remained a polite, subdued presence.

 

But muted subtlety had never suited him.

 

Alastor intended to be seen.

 

With a genial smile and just enough theatrical charm to hook their attention, he offered a few light remarks - fanciful turns of phrase sharpened into playful wit. Laughter rippled through the circle, tentative at first, then warmer as they relaxed into his presence. Once he found the rhythm of their amusement, he stepped neatly into the center of it, allowing his voice to carry in that smooth, musical cadence he had perfected in life.

 

He moved with the crisp confidence of a performer taking the stage, his gestures deliberate and expressive. Bits of showmanship - glimpses of the radio host he once was - slipped naturally into his mannerisms. And the Omegas responded as most audiences did; eager for entertainment, grateful for distraction and drawn toward a pleasant brightness in a place that allowed them so little room to truly shine.

 

Eventually, only hunger forced him to pause. He reached for the platter at their side, selecting a neat cube of seared flesh. The meat yielded easily beneath his pointed teeth, seasoned lightly, the flavor rich and warm against his tongue.

 

As he chewed and satiated himself, crimson eyes glimmered with quiet calculation.

 

Having secured his place as a favorable presence among his fellow Omegas, Alastor allowed his attention to drift outward, evaluating the broader landscape beyond their softly chattering circle. What struck him first was the absence of encroaching Alphas. None had bothered to press into their group or to posture in a way typical of their sex. Curious - until he realized the reason.

 

Every Omega present was already claimed.

 

The signs were unmistakable; healed over bite-marks that decorated their throats or shoulders, soft bruising at the glands, and - most telling of all - the layered fragrances clinging to them. Their scents had been altered and partly drowned beneath the dominant signatures of their mates. A public declaration to whomever breathed their essence. 

 

His own scent, unmarked and unmingled, stood out like a lantern in the dark.

 

Unclaimed Omegas were a rarity - almost an anomaly. Their curious glances betrayed that fact. But none dared comment aloud, at least not where others might hear. Too risky. Too political.

 

Once Alastor felt satisfied with the impressions he had cultivated, his interest began to wane. He fell quiet, expression pleasant yet distant, as he surveyed the room. Remaining among the Omegas was safe enough, but safety rarely bred opportunity.

 

He needed someone to gravitate toward. Someone useful.

 

So he observed. Unpartnered Alphas lingered at the edges, some confident, some arrogant, some already bored with the evening. A few Betas caught his eye - figures of notable reputation, accomplished and influential in ways that would benefit him if handled with care.

 

Any one of them could serve as a stepping-stone.

 

But he needed malleability. Someone who could be nudged, cultivated, manipulated if necessary. A creature with ambition - but not enough cunning to be dangerous to him. A difficult combination to find, especially in a room where hierarchy was a bloodsport.

 

His crimson gaze swept across the gathering, slow and methodical.

 

And then it snagged on a particular figure.

 

Broad-shouldered, stiff posture, an unmistakably square - almost boxy - head shape.

 

His interest was immediately sparked. 

 

Yes.

 

That one.

 

❧

 

His name was Vox - or, at least, that was his pseudonym. A simple title that conveniently rhymed with “box,” a playful nod to the creation of the television, an invention that had followed the radio as its natural successor. His real name was, in truth, Vincent - something he shared after only a bit of light probing. Alastor had already noted the lack of Omega scent clinging to his cashmere fabrics and he naturally gravitated toward him once he caught the shy, almost fleeting glance the man directed his way. It was that small glimmer of weakness that sealed his interest. Alastor waved over an imp balancing a tray of drinks, gingerly pressing one into the taller man’s hand.

 

It was effortless to get him talking, an almost dizzied smile twisting across the projected lips of the Sinner.

 

He’s young, Alastor observed, pleased.

 

That was good. Very good. He took a sip of his drink as Vox spoke.

 

“So you were a weatherman as well as a television host,” the Omega remarked, neatly regurgitating the information. “That’s quite the ascent, Vox.”

 

“Is it? Haha.”

 

An awkward laugh escaped him as he absently scratched the back of his curiously-shaped head. His gaze flicked from his drink to the grinning Omega.

 

“How long have you been an Overlord?” Alastor asked, conversationally.

 

“Oh - um. A couple of years. Didn’t take me long to manage it.”

 

The Omega arched a brow.

 

“A natural then. That’s no easy feat.”

 

Alastor smiled sharply, already deeply satisfied with his choice.

 

“A shame that you found yourself here of all places. A bit anxiety-inducing, you know? This whole…”

 

The Omega gestured vaguely.

 

“…royal summons business. Does anyone even know why we’ve been brought here in the first place?”

 

Vox released an aggrieved sigh, his shoulders slumping slightly.

 

“Yeah. I nearly shit bricks when Adam showed up at my doorstep. I thought it was my time, ya know?”

 

Alastor nodded in agreement. He could only imagine the array of reactions sparked by a Fallen Angel descending at random with a summons in hand.

 

“So enough about me,” Vox said, eager to steer the conversation somewhere lighter. “Tell me about yourself, Alastor.”

 

A soft chuckle escaped him before Alastor obliged, sharing small portions of himself - the place of his birth, his interests and his successful career as a radio host.

 

“The radio?”

 

Vox’s eyes widened, visibly impressed.

 

“You managed that…?”

 

“It wasn’t easy,” Alastor replied. “But I did it. I had a successful career leading up to my death. I was in my… mm. I was nearly forty when I died.”

 

The Alpha’s expression softened. 

 

“Ah. I’m guessing you had a family,” he said, sympathetically.

 

“Oh. Ha! No. No.”

 

Alastor took another drink as Vox blinked, visibly bemused. But the man chose not to probe further, wary of causing offense.

 

“So, tell me more about your endeavors.”

 

Turning the conversation around, Alastor listened as Vox outlined his ambitions - building a sprawling network, forging a media empire from scraps and capitalizing on the scattered companies throughout Hell that attempted the same.

 

The Omega blinked, his right ear giving a little flick. The subtle action drew the man’s gaze for a moment. 

 

“A merger?”

 

Vox’s eyes brightened. “Exactly that.”

 

“And how will you manage that? By force?”

 

A sharp look flickered across Vox’s features, a faint smirk tugging at his projected lips. “If it comes to that. Most certainly. I’ve done worse.”

 

“Oh?”

 

Alastor leaned in, studying him with overt interest. Vincent faltered under the sudden proximity, his television screen warming as the Omega’s spiced scent curled around him - pheromones acting like a siren’s call. He swallowed, the sound unmistakably loud.

 

“I’d love to hear more about it. Don’t spare me the details.”

 

Vox hesitated only a moment before his smile returned. Then he began recounting the sordid pieces of his life - the blood, the first kill and the manufactured accidents. Alastor’s approval was immediate and unmistakable. A glimmer of heat sharpened the crimson of his gaze as Vox went on and eagerly shared detail after violent detail.

 

A pause settled over their conversation as music rose through the ballroom. For a moment, the crowd stilled - instinctively responding to the shift in atmosphere. A band of imps began to play their stringed instruments, the soft yet ominous melody urging the gathered sinners to clear the floor. Those eager to dance drifted forward; the rest watching on with mild interest. 

 

Vox’s attention hung on the spectacle - until a hand slipped into his periphery. A single fingertip tapped beneath his chin, guiding his gaze back to the Omega standing before him.

 

“Would you like to dance, Vincent?”

 

A quiet, embarrassed stutter escaped him, heat blooming along the edges of his screen.

 

Alastor’s grin sharpened, unmistakably predatory.

 

“Come on then.”

 

They stepped out first, the pair of them crossing the threshold of polished marble as the crowd instinctively parted. Vox moved ahead, guided by some mixture of eagerness and nerves and Alastor allowed him the illusion of leading. The Alpha’s movements were stiff at first - jerky, uncertain, like a man suddenly aware of every limb he possessed.

 

Alastor found it charming.

 

He offered quiet, precise instruction: the placement of a hand, the shift of weight, the subtle sway that guided the body into rhythm. And Vox, to his credit, adapted quickly. What began as awkward, faltering steps smoothed into something confident. Fluid. Their bodies found a cadence and, within moments, they occupied the center of the floor as if the dance had been designed for them alone.

 

Only then did others dare to truly join, emboldened by the sight. Pairs drifted forward - Alphas with their Omegas, Betas accompanying one another - forming neat rings around the central pair. The ballroom swelled with movement: skirts swirled, polished shoes whispered across stone, and a hundred mingled scents braided together beneath the candlelit air.

 

Through it all, Vox kept glancing down at him - flustered yet captivated  - while Alastor moved with unbothered grace, every line of his body measured and deliberate.

 

“...”

 

His attention lifted, instincts pricking. Across the room, framed by shadow and flickering light, Rosie watched him. Her expression was hollow, her gaze fixed upon him with an obvious weight.

 

Alastor’s grin sharpened, the graceful deer amused by her scrutiny. And with a small, mocking tilt of his head -  almost a bow - he acknowledged her.

 

Then he dismissed her with a blink and turned wholly back to Vox, gifting the Alpha his full attention once more as the dance carried them deeper into the slow, elegant whirl of the floor.

 

❧

 

Adam’s appearance was abrupt - almost violently so. One moment the band played, strings trembling with elegant precision, and the next a shadow bled across the far wall, stretching long and thin before snapping into the shape of the Fallen Angel himself. He materialized without ceremony or sound, as if the darkness had simply decided to stand up and become a malformed man.

 

The music died instantly.

 

Everyone had expected a thunderous announcement, something loud and theatrical to mirror the way he’d delivered his summons days before. But Adam seemed to take a certain delight in the collective jolt that rippled through the ballroom. His smile - wide and terrifyingly sharp - cut across the room as every dancer froze mid-step.

 

Alastor and Vox remained locked in one another’s hold, bodies stilled, the remnants of their momentum hanging between them.

 

“Hey now,” Adam crooned, voice carrying effortlessly across marble and candlelight, “re-lax. Enjoy your fun. King Lucifer ain’t ready yet.”

 

A snicker. Casual and dismissive. A wave of his hand encouraged the room to return to its revelry.

 

“Go on. Eat up. Drink up. Might as well enjoy the perks while ya can.”

 

The attempt at reassurance did nothing.

“Scary fucker,” Vox whispered, barely audible.

 

“Isn’t he?” Alastor murmured, equally soft.

 

The crowd tried to resume its earlier cadence, but something had shifted. The atmosphere thickened, uneasy and brittle. Conversations tightened into small, cautious clusters. Those who had danced retreated to the perimeter as if the very floor had become dangerous to occupy. No one dared step too near the Fallen Angel, who basked in the space afforded to him. He snatched a goblet from a passing imp and barked an order for an entire platter of choice meats, his presence turning the entire ballroom into a held breath.

 

Vox leaned closer. “Let’s go.”

 

He reached for Alastor’s hand, desperate to guide him away - but the Omega slipped from his grasp with effortless precision.

 

“A moment, Vincent.”

 

His voice was light. Almost cheerful. “I can’t help but be a little curious. This is Adam, after all. Where will I get another opportunity to speak with someone like him?”

 

Vox stared at him as though he’d announced an intent to walk into an open furnace.

 

“You can’t be serious.”

 

“I am,” Alastor replied, primly. “I’ll manage.”

 

“But he’s - he’s - ”

 

“I’ll be fine.”

 

“I - ”

 

“We’ll continue our discussion later,” Alastor promised, offering him a soft, placating smile.

 

Vox remained rooted to the spot as the Omega stepped away, projected lips flattening into a tight, anxious line. His fingers twitched with the urge to reach out again - but he didn’t. He merely watched, unease radiating from every line of his posture, as Alastor moved toward the most dangerous entity in the room with shining, crimson eyes.

Chapter 4: 4

Adam was a being who commanded fear in Hell - not through subtlety, but through sheer, unapologetic force. His presence grated, abrasive as sandpaper against raw flesh. His words were brutish, obscene and purposefully crude. And yet, beneath that vulgar exterior thrummed a power that had not dimmed since his Fall. He was still every bit the Executioner, every bit the weapon Lucifer had forged.

 

To witness him in person was an experience few forgot… and fewer dared to seek.

 

Yet Alastor stepped forward willingly.

 

A heat rippled through him, excitement skittering down his spine in a pleasurable shiver. His scent thickened with every step he took toward the Fallen Angel, rolling off him in steady waves he could no longer temper. A lesser Omega might’ve fled from the impending danger.

 

But Alastor advanced with a rarely matched bravado.

 

Adam’s crimson eyes snapped to him quickly, catching the movement. A flicker of surprise tugged at the expressive mask he wore before it split into a lecherous grin. His gaze raked over Alastor in one long, vulgar sweep.

 

“Oh, I remember you,” Adam purred, voice dripping with crude amusement. “Aren’t you a damn sight for sore eyes.”

 

He exaggerated a look around the ballroom, jaw set in mock expectation as if daring someone - anyone - to meet his stare. None did. Not a single Overlord, Alpha, or stray sinner. All averted their gazes on open submission. 

 

Adam scoffed harshly.

 

“Outta all you pathetic fucks,” he announced, loudly enough for half the room to hear, “it’s the goddamn deer - an Omega, no less - who’s got the balls to come talk to me?”

 

He whistled, clicked his tongue and snatched a piece of meat off the platter an imp shakily held at his side. He tore into it with feral indelicacy.

 

Alastor bowed deeply. 

 

“Sire.”

 

Adam’s eyes glittered, amusement sparking. An amusement that was paired with approval as the Omega bent beneath his heated gaze. 

 

Good, Alastor thought. Good.

 

“I was hoping to make your acquaintance,” he continued, smoothly.

 

“Well, I don’t blame ya,” Adam said through a mouthful of meat. “I’m pretty damn amazing.”

 

Alastor’s eyes shone with well-feigned admiration.

 

“I’ve no doubt. Your exploits are legendary. I was hoping you might be willing to share a few - with a drink.”

 

The murmuring that drifted through the room was immediate and sharp. 

 

Alastor’s left ear gave a slight twitch, the right swiveling. 

 

Adam paused mid-chew, eyes narrowing with puzzled intrigue as he studied the poised little Omega before him. Then, slowly, a grin crawled across his face.

 

“You got some guts, Bambi,” Adam remarked, leaning down until he was inches from Alastor’s throat. He inhaled audibly, a low hum rumbling in his chest. “Fuck. You smell good.”

 

Another bite. Another wet tear of meat.

 

Then:

 

“Shit,” he said with a shrug. “Why not?”

 

Alastor’s heart thudded sharply, not with fear but with the rush of success. Adam extended a bent arm - more like a command than an offer - and Alastor placed his hand upon it with delicate elegance.

 

The reaction was immediate.

 

The crowd recoiled, granting them a wide berth as though Adam’s aura seared anyone who came close. Alastor felt the weight of borrowed power wash over him - a fraction of Adam’s presence bleeding into him through proximity.

 

It was temporary and fleeting. 

 

But he relished it.

 

Adam looked insufferably pleased, chest puffed, lips curled in a smug, predatory smile. An unclaimed Omega hanging off his arm was a trophy - and he brandished it with all the finesse of a barbarian.

 

“Move,” he barked at a group of onlookers who were too slow to step aside.

 

They scattered.

 

Adam led him toward a quieter corner - quieter only because the rest of the ballroom fled from his orbit. The Fallen Angel moved like a man who had never once been denied space in his life, his long strides demanding it. Alastor kept pace easily, his light steps a contrast to Adam’s heavy, swaggering gait.

 

Once they reached a marble pillar, Adam stopped abruptly. Alastor halted with impeccable timing, offering neither stumble nor hesitation. The Fallen Angel’s grin sharpened.

 

“Good reflexes,” Adam commented, licking grease from his thumb with no sense of propriety. “Most Omegas trip over themselves trying to impress me.”

 

Alastor allowed a soft laugh - warm and pleasant.

 

“Do they? How tragic.”

 

Adam snorted. “Tragic? Nah. Hilarious.”

 

He leaned in. Entirely too close. His shadow swallowed Alastor whole, the heat of him rolling like desert wind.

 

“So,” Adam said, voice dropping low. “What’s your angle, babe? Don’t bullshit me. You didn’t come trotting over here just to flutter your lashes at the big bad Fallen Angel.”

 

Alastor tilted his head slightly, crimson eyes brightening.

 

“I assure you,” he replied, “I’ve no intentions beyond your company. Though I’m hardly immune to curiosity.”

 

Adam barked a laugh. The sound alone was enough to startle those who stood at a distance.

 

“Curiosity, huh? Dangerous trait for an Omega.”

 

He jabbed a thumb roughly against his chest. 

 

“Especially ‘round me.”

 

Alastor’s smile didn’t so much as tremble. “Danger often makes for the most memorable experiences.”

 

That got Adam’s attention.

 

He dragged his eyes over Alastor again, more assessing this time. Less crude, more analytical - if Adam could ever be described with such a word.

 

“Alright, Bambi,” he said. “You want stories? I’ll give you stories.”

 

He jerked a hand toward a passing imp.

“Oi! Drinks. Strong ones.”

 

The imp sprinted.

 

Adam continued, rolling his neck until the vertebrae cracked audibly.

 

“You wanna hear about the time I wiped out an entire bar ‘cause some Alpha fuck thought he could mouth off?” he asked, grin widening.

 

“Delightful,” Alastor murmured, feigning intrigue. “Do tell.”

 

Adam launched into it immediately.

 

And with each crude, violent detail, the two of them drew more eyes. More whispers. A ripple of confusion spread through the room at the sight of an Omega - an unclaimed one - calmly standing in the shadow of Hell’s most volatile executioner. After all, such a soft creature was afforded little in the way of true protection. 

 

Adam gestured wildly as he told the story, reenacting portions with unnecessary flourish, laughing at his own barbarity. And Alastor listened - rapt and offering little nods and soft hums of encouragement.

 

When the drinks arrived, Adam downed his in one swallow and shoved the second glass at Alastor. His look was an expectant one. 

 

“Go on. Drink. Let’s see if you can handle something that isn’t dainty Omega shit.”

 

Alastor accepted it with the etiquette of someone being offered fine wine.

 

He took a measured sip. It was bitter. Delightfully so. And it burned on its way down his gullet. 

 

Adam watched, expectant.

 

Alastor exhaled lightly, placing the glass against his chest with a pleased hum.

 

“Crisp,” he said. “I quite like it.”

 

Adam stared.

 

Then he laughed. 

 

“You’re a strange one,” he said. “A strange, bold little Omega. Not sure if that means you’re clever or suicidal.”

 

Alastor’s smile glinted.

 

“Perhaps a bit of both.”

 

Adam leaned in close enough that Alastor felt breath against his cheek.

 

“I like you,” he growled. “You’re entertaining.”

 

Alastor bowed his head, voice honey-sweet. 

 

“I’m pleased to hear it.”

 

The Fallen Angel smirked so widely it nearly split his face.

 

“You’ll be sticking with me tonight, Bambi. I wanna see what else you’re made of.”

 

The ballroom buzzed with fresh, uneasy whispers.

 

And Alastor - every bit the polite, well-mannered Omega - simply smiled, accepting the Alpha’s company. When Adam finally shifted his attention elsewhere, Alastor visibly sobered, casting a glance toward a particular spot. A lone tv-headed Alpha stood there, looking unmistakably anxious.

 

Pathetic.

 

Still, he’d play his part. He sent a helpless, chastened look in that direction - as though he’d done something wrong; as though Adam’s continued proximity had been accidental and unwanted. Vox caught the fleeting expression immediately, likely already convinced of Alastor’s innocence.

 

Alastor smothered a quiet bubble of laughter, relishing the moment he watched the tiny seed he had planted in the young Alpha begin to take root.

 

In life and in death, Alphas remained such stupidly simple creatures - driven by instinct and so easily led astray by soft words and a pleasant face. Alastor had always found it amusing. Predictable. Even comforting in its own way.

 

Adam was no exception.

 

As the Fallen Angel’s attention swung back to him - midway through another half-formed story, slurred with enthusiasm - he fixated on Alastor with the intensity of someone who had just rediscovered the concept of beauty. His gaze sharpened, hungry, his wolfish grin widening as though Alastor himself were the room’s lone source of light.

 

And Alastor offered him precisely what he wanted; a patient smile, a tilt of the head, the courteous hum of someone utterly enthralled. A carefully curated illusion. 

 

The Fallen Angel absorbed the attention greedily, his hand soon drifting, settling with bold familiarity along the curve of Alastor’s hip. They slipped easily into conversation, Adam’s anecdotes punctuated by boisterous laughter and the occasional theatrical gesture, while Alastor answered with polite amusement and just enough warmth to keep the Alpha hooked. Together they indulged in drink after drink, and though Alastor was far from drunk, a pleasant buzz began to loosen the edges of his tongue.

 

Eventually, he leaned in with an expression that bordered on playful.

 

“Tell me, Adam,” he asked, voice silky-smooth, “can you dance?”

 

The Fallen Angel blinked once before a bark of laughter burst out of him.

 

“Can I dance?” he scoffed. “Babe, please. I was cuttin’ floors before half the schmucks in this room were even born. Better question - ” he jabbed a finger lightly toward Alastor’s chest, “ - can you keep up with me?”

 

Alastor’s lips curved into a perfectly honed, challenging smile. It had the same sharpness as Adam’s grin, but refined - razor’s edge disguised as charm.

 

“Well,” he replied, eyes gleaming, “that depends. Does this little orchestra know anything resembling jazz?”

 

Adam’s laughter boomed across the space, startling a few nearby demons.

 

“Aw, hell yeah they do,” he declared, snapping his fingers. “Lucifer made sure the band’s got range. C’mon, sweetheart - lemme show ya somethin’.”

 

Alastor’s smile lingered, cool and knowing.

 

“By all means,” he purred, “lead the way, Sire.”

 

❧

 

Alastor had originated from an era where jazz reigned supreme - when swing had reached its blistering crescendo and the world seemed to pulse in time with brass and bass. As an Omega, he’d learned early on how to navigate spaces that throbbed with that music: smoke-thick clubs, polished dance floors and speakeasies lit by golden lamps and bad intentions. He learned to move like the flappers he admired - loose-limbed, sharp, theatrical - his every step a deliberate invitation or dismissal. He spent innumerable nights in his twenties weaving through crowds, skirts and suits blurring around him, learning how to command a room without ever raising his voice.

 

Adam, much to Alastor’s surprise, was no slouch either.

 

For all his crassness and brute confidence, the Fallen Angel moved with startling precision - raw and undeniably skilled. There was rhythm in him, some molten core of showmanship that predated even Hell’s oldest vices. And the instant the music shifted - an imp’s trembling voice rising into an excitable tune, the swell of strings folding into the sultry cry of saxophones and the steady heartbeat of drums - they stepped into motion as though answering a challenge neither had spoken aloud.

 

The crowd fell instantly silent.

 

Demons paused mid-conversation, glasses hovering halfway to lips, as the pair overtook the dance floor with effortless command. Where other couples had moved with polite grace, these two carved through the space like rival storms - fluid yet forceful, polished yet feral. Their steps weren’t simply synchronized; they pushed against one another, testing limits, probing weaknesses.

 

It wasn’t a dance.

 

Not really.

 

It felt like a bid for dominance dressed up in rhythm and charm - Adam’s wild, Alpha-driven energy clashing against Alastor’s razor-edged poise and perfected elegance. A contest masked as entertainment, every spin and dip a quiet threat, every shared grin a quiet challenge. 

 

Alastor felt alive - truly, blisteringly alive - as he moved. For a fleeting moment he was no longer an infernal spirit bound to Hell’s endless grind, but flesh and bone again, breathing air thick with cigarette smoke and possibility. His memories bled over the scene: silhouettes in era-appropriate dress, sequins catching low light, the ghost of a gramophone’s static buried beneath trumpets and laughter. The dance floor around him became crowded with echoes - his past layered over the present, so vivid he could almost taste it.

 

He let himself sink into the rhythm, let the music pull him under, let the world blur at the edges until there was nothing but motion and heat and Adam’s heavy presence circling him like a bird of pray. He was so swept up in the moment that he failed to catch the shift - failed to see the sharp, predatory glint that flashed in Adam’s eyes. Failed to sense the Alpha’s grip tightening, his arm guiding the next movement with sudden, deliberate force.

 

In a blink, Alastor was spun away - hard, fast, the world tilting.

 

And he collided with someone else entirely.

 

He knew instantly that the body catching him was wrong - not the towering bulk he’d grown familiar with. The scent hit him like a blow: crisp and unmistakably sweet. Apples. Pure and overwhelming. His breath caught in his throat as his senses locked onto that fragrance he’d only ever heard whispered about.

 

The Omega went rigid, every instinct sharpening like a blade.

 

His eyes snapped open.

 

This was no stranger. No overreaching demon. No careless reveler.

 

It was him.

 

Lucifer.

 

He lurched back on pure prey-driven instinct, muscles locking as though a gunshot had cracked through the room. His ears folded tight against his skull; his eyes wide and glass-bright with astonishment. The music continued to thrum on, steady  - because the band knew better. They would not halt unless commanded by the very mouth of Hell himself.

 

“Dance for me,” the King of Hell said.

 

The words were sweet - sickly so - like honey left too long in the sun. And despite Lucifer’s deceptively slight frame and soft voice, Alastor could feel the power coiling beneath his skin the instant a hand closed around his wrist. Firm. Unyielding. Absolute.

 

His retreat had been denied. 

 

“Sire,” Alastor managed, a thin, strangled sound. “I - ”

 

Lucifer’s expression did not shift. His face remained a perfect mask, carved from porcelain and cold authority. No raised brow. No curl of lip. No glimmer of irritation or amusement. Nothing to grasp, nothing to anticipate. The blank, terrible neutrality was worse than anger - worse than anything Alastor had expected.

 

He struggled to anchor himself, breath hitching as the King’s grip tightened just enough to remind him who, exactly, held him.

 

And Lucifer watched in perfect silence.

 

Unblinking.

 

Unreadable.

 

Waiting.

 

He did not repeat his question. 

 

He would not repeat his question. 

 

“Yes, Sire,” the Omega replied, haltingly. “I’m yours to command.” 

 

The nature of the dance shifted at once - no longer a shared rhythm, no longer mutual momentum. Instead, a rigid hierarchy settled over them like a shroud. Lucifer’s hands never once loosened, never drifted, never faltered. They held him precisely where he wished him to be. Every step was dictated. Every turn is predetermined. Every motion is an assertion of power.

 

It was a far cry from Vox - who had been uncertain, eager, malleable - and utterly unlike Adam, whose dominance was indulgent and ultimately permissive.

 

He led with Vox.

Adam allowed him to roam and flourish in a grand display.

 

But Lucifer…

Lucifer was an entirely different creature.

 

There was a thin, razor-edged cruelty threaded through each crisp movement, hidden beneath the elegance of perfect form. A subtle violence in the way he redirected Alastor’s balance. A quiet warning in every shift of pressure. Alastor felt it in the tightening of his features, in the burning of his lungs, in the vise of the King’s fingers at his waist - on his hip… 

 

He was not being guided.

He was being handled.

Forced to execute each maneuver exactly as Lucifer intended.

 

It was suffocating.

And beneath it all, alarmingly intoxicating.

 

To be in such close proximity to power - true power - warmed him in a way he couldn’t immediately name. It sank into his bones, an intoxicating heat that threatened to soften his focus, to lull him into something perilously close to submission. The Omega buried deep within his psyche stirred in recognition, humming its quiet encouragement, enthralled by the presence of its king.

 

Alastor gritted his teeth. His eyes flashed - not with fear, but with fury at himself, at his biology and at the insidious thrill rising in his veins. An outrage that the control he had maintained had been broken. The night partly ruined.

 

But the lapse lasted only a moment - 

 

He glanced at Lucifer’s face and startled. 

 

The King regarded him with that same inscrutable, unyielding mask of calm. There was only a chilling blankness that made mockery of any attempt to read him. 

 

And yet in that frozen heartbeat, Alastor understood with absolute certainty:

 

His mask had failed.

Lucifer had seen everything.

 

A bolt of primal alarm shot through him, sharp enough to make his breath hitch. To make him falter and miss a crucial step in their dance. 

 

He needed to get away.

He needed distance.

 

A moment to breathe - to think. 

He needed -

Chapter 5: 5

Alastor had overstepped.

 

This much was obvious. It pulsed in the air like a second heartbeat—his mistake, loud and damning. And everyone present knew it. The Omega who dared wander too close to the metaphorical flame had strolled straight into the fire - and was moments away from being burned alive beneath the gaze of two of Hell’s most merciless powers.

 

That Lucifer had released him at all was a mercy. A small, terrible mercy. The ghost of the King’s touch still lingered along his wrist, cold and electric, sinking beneath his skin like an invasive brand.

 

The music died abruptly, strangled mid-note. Lucifer allowed him a moment - only a moment - to gather himself. Alastor stepped back, hands before him, fingers interlaced tightly. He bowed deeply, a perfect display of polished humility.

 

“Your Majesty,” he said, voice steady through sheer force of will. “It was an honor.”

 

Lucifer answered with silence.

 

He was perfect. Composed entirely of sharp lines, immaculate tailoring and a regal poise carved from celestial arrogance. Not a wrinkle. Not a crease. Nothing out of place. Nothing comforting nor familiar. A stark contrast to the flawed beings that surrounded him. 

 

The quiet stretched outward from their axis like a ripple in dark water. No one dared speak. No whisper. No breath louder than a prayer swallowed in terror.

 

Then - 

 

“The fuck are you all waiting for?”

 

Adam’s voice cracked across the room like a whip. 

 

“Get those heads down. Or I’ll start takin’ them off myself.”

 

The temperature spiked. The air shimmered with heat despite the cool stone of the ballroom. Something massive and cruel manifested at Adam’s side - an executioner’s weapon, glowing with promise. Alastor did not turn to look, did not dare break eye contact with the King.

 

But his peripheral vision caught movement - 

 

- the entire hall folding at once.

 

Not merely bowing.

Prostrating.

 

Bodies dropped to the ground with heavy, unified thuds - Alphas, Betas and Omegas alike pressing their foreheads to the floor, trembling in reverent submission.

 

Alastor held his breath.

 

He was still standing. Lucifer was still standing. And Adam loomed close behind him, drawing nearer with slow, deliberate steps.

 

Too slow.

 

An obvious warning. 

 

A moment to correct his mistake. 

 

Alastor dropped.

 

He moved with practiced grace, of course, sliding into the posture expected of his station. It should have been natural - shouldn’t all Omegas submit so readily? But every inch of the pose grated against his true instinct and whatever presently remained of his pride. 

 

His forehead met the floor as his teeth clenched with disgust. 

 

A low, amused rumble sounded above him.

 

“Pretty,” Adam drawled, the mockery thick. “Look at you. Fuckin’ adorable when you’re scared.”

 

Alastor’s fingers curled. Claws pricked his palms, little blossoms of pain grounding him. He was grateful - pathetically so - that his bangs concealed his expression as fury sparked bright in his crimson eyes.

 

Why had Lucifer revealed himself now?

Why without warning?

 

He’d expected something that allowed him - at the very least - a single moment to prepare himself. But the King had appeared suddenly and without preamble. 

 

He should have anticipated it.

 

He should have planned for it.

 

How pathetically short-sighted of him. 

 

Rosie would have words for him - sharp ones - if they both survived this blunder. He had entangled himself in the orbit of beings whose whims could shatter the foundation of Hell. And worse yet, he had danced straight into the arms of the devil himself.

 

A laugh threatened to claw free - wild and wholly inappropriate considering the severity of the moment.

 

Instead, a shiver passed through him. A small tremor, just noticeable enough.

 

Anger.

But it could pass for fear. 

 

A comparatively acceptable emotion. 

 

And that, at least, was safer than the truth.

 

He didn’t rise of his own accord.

 

Adam seized him. One massive hand clamping around Alastor’s bicep, fingers digging in with careless strength. The Fallen Angel hauled him upright as though he weighed nothing, the motion rough and startlingly abrupt. Alastor’s muscles twitched with the instinct to wrench himself free, but such an attempt would be a waste. There was no hope in breaking Adam’s grip. 

 

Resisting would only amuse him and warrant a swift punishment. A physical correction, at worst. 

 

“C’mon, Bambi,” Adam said, voice a gravelly purr of mockery. “Field trip time. We’re headin’ to the Throne Room.”

 

The words hit like a blow.

 

Alastor faltered, his gaze darting toward the masses still pinned to the ground. He sought Rosie out among their number but the bowing bodies melded together. A sea of trembling limbs and lowered heads. She was there. 

 

Somewhere. 

 

“My Beta is - ”

 

He froze as Adam’s grip tightened to a bruising vise.

 

The Fallen Angel leaned in, his breath hot against Alastor’s ear, thick with the scent of cooked meat and something far more animalistic. His pheromones curled around the Omega like smoke - clinging to both skin and fabric. Alastor hated how easily it seeped in and left its mark with ease. 

 

“What was that?” Adam murmured, the false softness in his tone terrifying. 

 

A second chance.

 

A rare, generous second chance.

 

“Of course, Sire,” Alastor corrected swiftly, bowing his head.

 

The tension in Adam’s fingers eased, the brute’s satisfaction palpable. He straightened, lifting his gaze to Lucifer. A silent exchange passed between them as he released his grip upon the Omega. 

 

Lucifer did not even glance at Alastor.

 

He simply turned on his heel.

 

The king began walking toward the great doors, his pace generally unhurried. What need was there for a lord and master to hurry within his domain?  His hands folded behind his back in a posture that radiated control - a control so complete that the air itself seemed to tighten around him.

 

His entourage soon fell into place: the hellborn monarch at its head, the Fallen Angel at his flank and the solitary Omega trailing between them like a lamb among wolves.

 

❧

 

Adam’s weapon was a stringed instrument, casually slung over his shoulder. In truth, the thing was far more malleable - reshaping itself at will to produce music or, with a shift in intent, to serve as an executioner’s axe. It was a weapon specialized for cleaving through the necks of Sinners.

 

Beheading. How delightfully grotesque. A very fitting method for the Executioner.

 

Alastor had been granted the rare privilege of studying the weapon up close. He stood at the Fallen Angel’s side, positioned just beside the King’s throne - an honor not afforded lightly and one he did not take for granted. His gaze drifted discreetly toward the instrument, cataloging its details with a predator’s curiosity. His posture remained impeccable: shoulders squared and every inch of him controlled. His eyes stayed lowered in deference. And though his permanent smile remained etched across his face, it softened - its corners curving with a restrained, almost reverent interest.

 

Lucifer lounged upon his throne with practiced ease, one leg elegantly crossed over the other. His chin rested against a curled fist, his expression one of detached boredom. The flicker of candlelight along the obsidian floor cast shifting shadows across his features, lending him a strangely serene yet unmistakably dangerous air.

 

“Let’s begin,” he drawled, his voice carrying effortlessly through the vast chamber.

 

The heavy doors groaned open moments later, admitting an Alpha Overlord and their Omega counterpart. The air shifted with their entry, thick with hierarchy and the muted hum of unease. Their names and titles were announced with crisp clarity, echoing through the hall before fading into silence.

 

Upon reaching a respectful distance from the throne, the pair knelt. The Omega lowered fully, both knees touching the cold floor. The Alpha, by contrast, dropped to a single knee - a measured, intentional display of rank and pride. The disparity was not a slight; it was tradition, a wordless acknowledgement of their places in the order of things as they bowed before their Lord.

 

Lucifer lifted one languid hand. A white script materialized before him, coalescing into the form of a partially unrolled scroll hovering in the air. He paused, crimson eyes scanning several passages with slow, deliberate interest. The chamber remained utterly silent, every soul present suspended in anticipation - waiting for his verdict. 

 

The scroll brightened faintly in response to his attention, its letters shifting in elegant, celestial script as Lucifer’s gaze lingered on whatever truths or decrees lay written within.

 

“You may leave,” he declared.

 

The pair’s relief was palpable. They rose with measured care, determined not to appear overly eager as they retreated. Their unified bow was appropriately reverent. Still, the Omega wavered - pale and unsteady - leaning heavily into their Alpha’s side as they made their exit. Alastor’s gaze followed them until they slipped past the great doors, his attention shifting between the departing figures and the King perched upon his throne. He found himself silently speculating about the contents of the scroll and the intentions that lay behind Lucifer’s seemingly idle judgments.

 

The procession continued. Dismissal after dismissal played out in swift succession - pairs or solitary petitioners summoned forward, awaiting either their freedom or whatever punishment their lord deemed appropriate. The rhythm of it became ritualistic: step forward, kneel and quietly pray for mercy.
 

The first few left relieved. 

 

Then a lone Sinner stepped forth. A figure vaguely resembling a cactus - stubby, uneven spikes protruding at odd angles. A Beta. Meager in stature. A creature so thoroughly unimpressive that one might have dismissed him outright.

 

But appearances in Hell were rarely trustworthy.

 

Lucifer’s gaze sharpened. His eyes caught upon some unseen detail and his expression shifted - subtly, almost imperceptibly. A single, perfectly sculpted brow arched. A small, cold spark of interest ignited.

 

He lifted his hand.

 

And snapped his fingers.

 

The sound was soft. 

 

Yet it rang through the throne room like a death knell.

 

The meaning was unmistakable.

 

Adam stepped forward with open, hungry relish, his grip tightening around the haft of his weapon. Alastor remained where he stood, still as stone, every instinct urging him not to draw attention to himself.

 

“Looks like you’re fucked, boy-o,” Adam crooned, voice thick with amusement. “Now - are we doing this the easy way, or the hard way? Go on. Make my day and say the latter, yeah?”

 

The Sinner trembled violently, his wide eyes darting between the Executioner and the King, as though salvation might flicker in either direction.

 

“I - I didn’t - ”

 

Adam cut him off with a crude mimicry of speech, flapping a hand and rolling his eyes, malice radiating from every inch of him as he stepped closer.

 

“Y-ya didn’t what? Fuck around and find out?”

 

The Sinner’s mouth opened - then closed. No answer came. No plea. Only terror, raw and choking, sealing his throat shut. The Executioner inhaled noisily, appearing to relish the fear scent that oozed - as though the taste of it stirred him. 

 

“I just love the smell of fear.” 

 

The axe raised. And fell only a moment later.

 

A splash of gore splattered Alastor’s face. 

 

❧

 

The bodies were removed swiftly after each execution - dragged away by silent attendants, scrubbed from stone and sight. But no amount of cleaning could erase the truth. The scent lingered. It seeped into the marble and into the very air itself. Fear. Blood. The oily, disgusting tang of spilled essence. It clung to the throat like smoke. And though the chamber appeared immaculate each time a new Sinner entered, the scent betrayed the lie.

 

It whispered the truth: that the moment the King’s cold eyes fixated upon them, they were already tipping over the edge of death.

 

“Lemme get that for ya, babe.”

 

Alastor didn’t have time to flinch. A narrow tongue - rough and uncomfortably warm - flicked against his cheek, gathering a smear of gore that had begun to dry there. Adam drew back with a wet slurp, grinning like an animal who’d stolen a treat.

 

Alastor resisted the urge to wipe his face clean, his eyelids lowering slightly as his features crinkled lightly at the edges. 

 

Adam, perceptive in all the worst ways, chuckled low in his throat and dragged his tongue slowly across his own lips as though savoring something exquisite.

 

The Fallen Angel seemed to derive a disturbing degree of pleasure simply from being close to him. As though Alastor were some pampered consort rather than an unwilling witness. Adam’s massive tail occasionally slithered across the floor to brush against his ankles - light, teasing touches that made his skin crawl beneath his clothing. The brute shifted nearer whenever possible, leaning in until his breath hovered at Alastor’s ear, murmuring a quiet insult or a crude commentary about whoever dared step before the throne.

 

He revelled in it.

 

His interest - well, it wasn’t the worst thing Alastor had endured.

 

For all his barbarism, Adam possessed a strange quality Alastor could appreciate: honesty. Brutal, unfiltered honesty. No mask. No civility. No false manners to obscure his intentions. Everything he felt - lust, irritation, delight, bloodlust - spilled openly across that monstrous, expressive face. It repelled most. It, admittedly, fascinated Alastor.

 

And it was obvious - glaringly so - that Adam wanted to fuck him. The Fallen Angel’s scent betrayed him every few minutes, a hot spike of arousal threading into the air on occasion. After each death, Adam’s gaze inevitably drifted toward him, hungry and hopeful, as though awaiting praise for a job well done.

 

Approval. From an Omega.

 

How extraordinarily typical. 

 

It was far from uncommon for Alphas to posture in the presence of a potential mate - preening, puffing up and seeking validation like overeager wolves. A pretty face could manipulate such primal urges to their advantage. There was always a price to pay. But it could be worth it. 

 

So Alastor gave Adam precisely what he craved.

 

His perpetual grin sharpened at the edges, acquiring just a hint of wicked delight. His eyes gleamed with a spark of excitement. 

 

Yet his attention drifted from the Fallen Angel, tugged inevitably toward the indomitable figure seated upon the throne. Lucifer did not merely sit - he occupied, as though the structure itself had been carved around him. Effortless elegance. Terrible poise. Every subtle motion is precise. A deity in his own right, untouched by the desperation that flooded the room.

 

He remained unmoved by the pleas of those condemned. Unmoved by the Omegas mercilessly torn from the corpses of their Alpha mates - ripped away by sharp-toothed Hellhounds that dragged them - often screaming - through a secondary exit, their fates sealed behind doors no one dared follow.

 

One had attempted to intervene on behalf of her doomed mate. She earned Adam’s backhand for her trouble. The crack of it echoed through the chamber, violent in the way it snapped her head sideways. She collapsed in a limp heap, stunned silent and was hauled off like discarded property by waiting attendants.

 

Alastor had pondered what fate awaited her as his crimson gaze followed her partly crumpled form as it was dragged. Not out of compassion. The well-being of the Omegas were, ultimately, inconsequential to him despite the cordial rapport he’d cultivated among their number. It was mere idle interest. A morbid curiosity, he supposed. 

 

That idle curiosity led to a more pressing thought.

 

Why was he here?

 

Standing beside the throne as though he belonged among the ruling class of Hell?

 

Not that he particularly minded. This perspective was intriguing. 

 

His gaze drifted toward the towering doors of the chamber. The temptation to leave flickered in the back of his mind - an instinctive, intrusive twitch toward escape, or at least distance.

 

But even that brief fantasy withered.

 

Adam would never permit it. The Fallen Angel would correct him with malicious glee, dragging him back by the scruff if necessary. And Alastor had no doubt - none - that he would be treated little better than the punished Omega should he attempt to defy the position Lucifer had allowed him to occupy.

 

He straightened his posture, generally accepting of his fate. Alastor would puzzle out his predicament. 

 

For now there was no leaving. Not while those eyes - Lucifer’s and Adam’s - were fixed upon him. Alastor took care not to attract their attention, playing the part of the statuesque beauty. His ears flicked on occasion, the shape of his smile experiencing subtle shifts here and there. Little movements that made him alive - but didn’t draw the weight of their combined gazes. 

❧

 

Vox entered in a flicker of static, his projected lips pressed into a thin, strained line. The moment his presence hit the room, Adam’s head snapped toward him - sharp and curious. His nostrils flared, then his gaze cut to Alastor with sudden incredulity.

 

“That’s the one I smelled on you,” he muttered, surprisingly quiet. “The fuck?”

 

He cocked his head, eyes narrowing into an assessing squint as Vox knelt. The Executioner looked him over with the same scrutiny he gave a soon-to-be corpse - except tinged with genuine confusion.

 

“What’s so interesting about some box-headed, borderline twink-freak?”

 

A low, velvety hum slipped from Alastor. He tilted his head up just enough to meet Adam’s stare, ears folding slightly in a gesture that was half-demure, half-provocation. His smile sharpened as he spoke, voice a soft purr that slid effortlessly between them.

 

“Envious, Sire?”

 

The words left him like a croon - light and boasting a teasing edge meant to invoke a reaction. 

 

Adam’s response was a deep rumble that vibrated through the floor, his tail tip flicking in irritation. He held Alastor’s gaze for a beat too long before looking away, the non-answer loud in its silence.

 

Judgment resumed.

 

Lucifer barely spared Vox a full heartbeat before his verdict drifted out like smoke: innocent.

 

Dismissed. 

 

Relief prickled up Alastor’s spine - not emotional, but practical. It would’ve been dreadfully inconvenient if Vox had been reduced to paste and scattered metal pieces on the immaculate floor. He’d find no use in a corpse. 

 

Vox lingered just long enough to risk a glance at him.

 

Alastor did not move. He only offered a polite smile that betrayed little. 

 

The soft rumble from Adam beside him turned into a low, territorial growl - teeth bared. 

 

Vox immediately flinched and hurried toward the exit, static stuttering around him as he fled. The small exchange did not go unnoticed; the Executioner’s eyes followed Vox’s departure before sliding back to Alastor with a look that was equal parts suspicion and possessive annoyance.

 

❧

 

Rosie was also deemed innocent.

 

 But before dismissing her, Lucifer shifted in his throne - an almost lazy movement, yet deliberate enough to command the room. He  initially reclined with the poise of a lounging cat, every line of his body relaxed, but not a single ounce of vigilance lost.

 

His voice slid into the hush like a blade.

 

“Your Omega intrigues me.”

 

Rosie stiffened. A polite smile flickered across her face, thin and brittle as cracked porcelain.

 

“I’ve not encountered one who left such an impression,” Lucifer continued, eyes half-lidded. “Not in eons.”

 

“You flatter me, Your Majesty,” she managed, the edges of her voice fraying.

 

The king hummed - a soft, thoughtful sound.

 

“My Executioner seems taken with him as well.”

 

At that, Adam perked up, tail flicking with a smug, open interest. Rosie did not look at him. She did not dare.

 

Lucifer leaned forward, elbows resting neatly on his knees, fingers steepled. The movement sharpened his silhouette. 

 

“What use,” he asked, “does a Beta have for an unclaimed Omega?”

 

The pause that followed was suffocating.

 

Rosie dipped her head, but the crack in her composure was visible. Her voice came soft and trembling at the edges.

 

“He’s quite the companion, Your Majesty,” she said. “Hard-working. Loyal. Smart. A temperament to die for. I’d… truly hate to lose him.”

 

Lucifer’s expression did not change in the slightest. His stillness was oppressive - entirely judicial.

 

“That,” he replied, “is not up to you, girl.”

 

Rosie went silent. A single breath too quick betrayed her fear.

 

Lucifer let the moment stretch, taut as wire, before delivering his verdict:

 

“… you may keep him.”

 

Her relief broke over her in a palpable wave, her hand flying to her chest as though to keep her heart from leaping out. She exhaled shakily, head bowing lower in appreciation.

 

Lucifer’s next words came cool and unhurried.

 

“For now.”

 

A chill scraped down Alastor’s spine.

 

The king’s gaze drifted to Adam, who straightened instinctively under the weight of it.

 

“Return him.”

 

Adam’s face twisted into a deep scowl - pure, displeased frustration. But he obeyed. He always obeyed.

 

He jerked his head at Alastor.

 

“You heard His Highness,” he growled, his irritation barely contained. “Go on - get to prancin’, babe.”

 

Alastor dipped his head with impeccable grace and made his way back to Rosie’s side. Her fingers brushed his arm in a silent check - Are you intact? Are you still mine? - a gesture quick enough not to attract attention.

 

Both bowed. Rosie executed an immaculate curtsy; Alastor folded into a deep, respectful bow.

 

Lucifer regarded them both in silence before offering a final, deceptively mild statement:

 

“You’ll be hearing from me again.”

 

The weight of it settled over them like a grave being filled.

 

Alastor’s pulse quickened. Rosie’s breath hitched. They bowed deeper, as one - two creatures silently acknowledging the promise - and threat - hidden in that single sentence.

 

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Rosie said, voice steady by force alone.

 

Neither dared to raise their eyes until Lucifer dismissed them.

Chapter 6: 6

Notes:

A small heads up. I intend for this fanfiction to be incredibly lengthy. I have a lot of world-building, character interaction, development and dynamics to work through. Which means quite a bit of writing needs to be done for me to properly flesh out my AU version of the Hazbin Hotel-verse.

Upon returning to Rosie’s territory, her displeasure became immediately - viscerally - known.

 

It was the first time she had ever struck him.

 

The crack of her palm against his cheek echoed through the small parlor, sharp against the silence of the empty space. Alastor’s head snapped to the side from the force, but he did not stumble. Slowly, with the eerie calm of a doll being re-positioned, he turned his face back toward her.

 

He smiled. As he always did. His crimson eyes, however, were empty - hollow wells reflecting nothing at all.

 

Rosie launched into a tirade, her voice trembling with a fury she could barely contain. A torrent of words - scoldings and reprimands paired with clipped insults - poured from her in a rush. Alastor stood in silence, hands folded before him, posture impeccable. Not a furrow tugged at his brow. Not a flicker of annoyance marred his expression.

 

He accepted the blow and the berating that followed, with the graceful passivity expected of an Omega. Quiet and attentive, as though he was minding her - and her words. 

 

When she finally exhausted her rage, what followed was his punishment. 

 

Isolation.

 

Alastor was to be confined to his home for the foreseeable future - “to reflect,” she’d said through clenched teeth. To reflect on his actions and careless words.  And the catastrophic reality that the highest echelon of Hell now knew his name, his face and his scent.

 

For Rosie, the consequences were dire.
 

A Beta “owner” of an unclaimed Omega was already precarious.

But a Beta who owned an Omega that Lucifer and Adam had both noticed…?

 

That placed her at a devastating disadvantage.

 

Alphas would sniff at her borders before the week was out.

 

She feared losing him - that much was obvious from the venom in her words. 

 

Alastor, meanwhile, felt none of the anxiety she carried. He had drawn the spotlight to himself intentionally. Flaunting himself and his natural signature with an unrivaled boldness. He had glimpsed an opportunity and seized it with both hands. 

 

There had been missteps. A moment of recklessness, yes. A brush against death he could have avoided with more care.

 

But all things considered… he could work with the pieces now on the board. Though he’d be forced to patiently await the consequences that would inevitably come about. 

 

His punishment offered something valuable:

 

Time and solitude.

The luxury to dissect each memory with ruthless precision. To reassemble the puzzle in the privacy of his home without fear of interruption.

 

Dismissed with a cold flick of Rosie’s wrist, he bowed and withdrew with flourish, returning obediently to his abode as commanded.

 

The house greeted him with a suffocating silence. He had barely stepped inside before it was broken by the skittering sound of tiny feet and a sharp gasp.

 

Niffty barreled into him like a tiny whirlwind.

 

Her nostrils flared rapidly - once, twice - before she climbed him like a ladder, perching on his shoulders. Her hands tugged at his collar, fingers probing the juncture of his neck with frantic precision. The diminutive woman frantically searching for a claiming bite. 

 

When she found none, she sagged with relief before her expression twisted into utter offense.

 

“You’re reeking, Alastor! Strip! Strip now - now!”

 

He raised a brow but complied, unbuttoning and peeling away the layers of fabric. The scent of Adam clung stubbornly to cloth and skin, thick and oppressive. Niffty grabbed the bundle of clothing with a hiss and marched it straight outside, dumping it unceremoniously into a wash basket as though it were toxic waste.

 

“If that stays a minute longer, the whole house’ll stink like Alpha!” she snapped. “Gross. It’s gross, Alastor.”

 

A bath was drawn with record speed. Steam curled from the tub in heavy waves as Niffty dumped entire handfuls of scent-neutralizing soap into the water. The mixture soon thickened into a cloudy solution, pungent enough to burn the sinuses.

 

She insisted on joining him - for efficiency, she claimed, though her tone left no room for argument. Alastor slid into the bath with a soft hiss at the heat, sinking into the comforting warmth as she hopped in behind him.

 

Her hands were small, quick and remarkably strong. She worked the soap into his fur with brisk efficiency - scrubbing his hair, lathering his shoulders, washing away every last trace of Adam’s invasive scent. She muttered under her breath the entire time, half of it complaints and the other half fretful observations.

 

There was a strange comfort to it.

 

Niffty’s touch was a rare blend of professional detachment and genuine care. It was equal parts thorough and methodical. A quiet, soothing balm after the day’s excitement.

 

Alastor let himself relax - just barely - as her fingers scrubbed circles into his scalp, her little hums vibrating through his bones.

 

His eyes drifted half-shut and a sigh escaped him. Low. Heavy. Almost human.

 

For the first time since the throne room… he allowed himself to breathe and relax. But even in the warmth of the water, even beneath Niffty’s diligent hands, his mind continued to turn. He reweaved threads of power and future manipulations within the boundaries of his imagination. 

 

And beneath the surface of the water, his claws flexed with slow, deliberate intent.

 

He’d planted the seeds. He needed only to wait for them to properly take root. 

 

❧

 

Alastor sipped his hot drink with quiet contentment, savoring the warmth as it spread across his tongue. His comforts - supplies, food, tea leaves, the usual small luxuries - had been delivered earlier that morning and tucked away neatly into cupboards and polished cabinets. Rosie’s displeasure at him had not eclipsed her instinctive compulsion to provide for her Omega. Even in irritation, she ensured his needs were met. It was an unconscious act of care, ingrained into her very biology.

 

She visited him once or twice a week. No more. No less. And each time, the sharpness of her anger had cooled from a roaring flame into something simmering - still hot, but manageable in the absence of his immediate presence.

 

During these visits, he prepared everything to her satisfaction. He cleaned the space meticulously, prepared fresh tea and greeted her with the impeccable politeness expected of his designation. He listened to her words with rapt attention, gleaning details she hadn’t meant to reveal. Every tossed-off comment and passing complaint - he tucked them away, assembling a quiet map of Hell’s shifting landscape.

 

While Rosie remained shielded within her territory, the world beyond Cannibal Town was spiraling. Entire territories lay unclaimed in the wake of numerous Overlord's executions. The survivors now vied to seize districts, reshape their borders and claim the freshly untethered souls. Order had cracked, leaving a screaming vacuum eager to feed.

 

Rosie, ever cautious, spared him the bloodiest details. She spoke instead of market crashes and of the unstable economy - grievances she could voice without breaching her self-imposed limits.

 

“…though I suppose we can’t complain about the meat supply,” she conceded once, irritably swirling her tea. 

 

Indeed, Alastor had noticed. The cuts he received had grown better - softer, richer, from denizens of varying species and origins. War, while destructive, was remarkably generous to the cannibals.

 

They made for delightful additions to his recipes.

 

“Ah. Before it slips my mind,” Rosie said suddenly, clearing her throat.

 

She reached into her small purse - stiff fingers betraying a hint of reluctance - and withdrew a neatly folded letter.

 

“This, my dear,” she said tightly, “is for you.”

 

Her painted lips pinched as she surrendered it to him. 

 

“Oh?” he murmured.

 

Interest lit his eyes as he accepted the envelope. His hands were careful, almost reverent. He had never received a letter in Hell. Not once, in all the decades since his arrival. A faint, familiar scent clung to the paper - a static undercurrent of ozone and warm circuitry.

 

He broke the seal.

 

Slid the paper free.

 

And read.

 

His brows climbed high.

 

“Oh,” he repeated, softer.

 

A formal request for courtship.

 

Among Overlords, such documents served to maintain peace while expressing intent to pursue an Omega under another’s jurisdiction. Marriage requests were rare and political. Courtship requests - more frequent, more negotiable - served as a probationary phase. A chance to test compatibility and much easier to dissolve if either party lost interest. 

 

His eyes found the name.

 

“Vox,” he breathed.

 

His smile sharpened, eyes half-lidded with amusement.

 

“How bold of him,” Alastor mused. “Given my reputation. Though I suppose I can respect the initiative.”

 

Across from him, Rosie took a measured sip of her tea. It was brewed precisely to her liking, because Alastor always ensured her comfort - even when tension simmered between them.

 

“You swept him right off his feet,” she said. “Especially after that little jig of yours.”

 

Alastor lifted his gaze to her, the curve of his smile unchanged.

 

“Will you accept his offer?” he asked.

 

Her eyes narrowed.

 

“Will you?” she countered, her tone clipped.

 

He tucked the letter neatly back into its envelope, careful not to crease it. He would not accept it yet. That would make him appear overeager. Desperate. He was neither. Let Vox wait. Let Rosie stew in uncertainty.

 

Control was found in timing.

 

“I’ll need a moment to consider the proposal,” he replied, lightly.

 

Rosie’s fingers tightened around her teacup. The porcelain strained beneath her grip.

 

“Do not forget,” she warned quietly, “that any agreement reflects upon me.”

 

“Of course,” Alastor replied smoothly. “And I would never act without considering the consequences for my… benefactor.”

❧

It was pleasant - delicious, even - to wield control over something so seemingly small, yet so deeply consequential. The knowledge that both a Beta and an Alpha were waiting with frayed nerves for his answer gave him a quiet thrill. It was a rare thing in Hell for an Omega to make others wait. To dictate the pace at their leisure. 

 

So he took his time.

 

A purposeful pause stretched into two full weeks. Long enough to unsettle Vox’s nerves. Long enough for Rosie to grow restless and increasingly sharp in her reminders. Long enough for both parties to understand - consciously or not - that Alastor’s compliance was a gift, not a guarantee.

 

When the time finally came, he penned a response with his usual elegant script. He brought the draft to Rosie, offering it with courteous deference while carefully watching her expression. She reviewed it with pursed lips, made several changes, struck out a handful of lines and even added two of her own. They engaged in a quiet tug-of-war over phrasing - his subtle flattery versus her political caution - until a compromise was reached.

 

Then, at last, Vox received his answer.

 

Alastor had accepted the proposal.

 

But he hadn’t passed the interim in idle contemplation. No - Alastor rarely wasted time.

 

He used the quiet weeks for study. He sifted through the newspaper clippings Niffty smuggled to him, paying particular attention to Vox’s ascension. He revisited their conversation in the ballroom, every boast and confession catalogued with meticulous precision. Piece by piece, he constructed a clearer image of the Alpha behind the static.

 

And the image was promising.

 

Vox’s empire - still fledgling, still finding its footing - was expanding in the wake of the power vacuum left by the slaughtered Overlords. Where others scrambled blindly, Vox advanced with startling efficiency. His techniques were crude in places, clever in others, but undeniably effective.

 

Influence, Alastor understood, was rarely born from brute strength. In Hell, it came from information.

 

Control the media and you controlled the narrative.
 

Control the narrative and you shaped perception.

Shape perception and power invariably followed.

 

Alastor found himself intrigued - genuinely so. Vox possessed cunning, the kind that could be molded and directed. He was ambitious enough to be useful, inexperienced enough to be malleable. It was a very promising combination.

 

He also understood - keenly - why Rosie had ultimately consented.

 

A courtship between their territories could solidify a much-needed alliance. One that offered protection and prestige - a shared uplifting of their respective reputations.

 

And of course, aligning herself with an Overlord who was rising at such an unprecedented pace was simply good strategy for a Beta with limited reach.

 

Rosie accepted the proposal for safety.

 

Alastor accepted it for opportunity.

 

And Vox?

Vox had sent it for infatuation.

 

Such a delightful imbalance.

 

He found himself smiling as he folded the final copy of his reply, his crimson eyes shining with a private amusement.

 

After all, he thought - It was always easier to steer a man already tipping forward.

 

❧

 

It wasn’t long before the gifts began arriving - first in polite intervals, then in near-abundant waves. Alastor found himself plied with bouquets crafted with suspicious attention to detail, each arrangement curated with flowers chosen for their color, fragrance or symbolism. Trinkets followed - odd little knickknacks clearly meant to charm rather than impress. And then the clothing began: finely tailored garments, each fitted precisely to his measurements despite Vox never having touched a tape to his skin.

 

Every parcel included a letter.

 

Vox, surprisingly, was good at them.

Very good.

 

His words were appropriately chaste for a formal courtship, but desire simmered beneath the politeness, a steady hum just shy of indecent. He wrote the way a young Alpha pined - with earnestness and a youthful eagerness entirely unfitting of an Overlord but deeply flattering all the same.

 

And Alastor replied to each one.

 

His responses carried the sharpness expected of him - clever, flirtatious without being saccharine, carefully measured to maintain the persona he’d displayed at Lucifer’s castle. He sprinkled his letters with genuine interest - questions about Vox’s work, gentle prods about his achievements, seemingly innocent requests for elaboration.

 

It was a subtle method of gathering information.

 

And Vox - his poor, ardent Vox - was astonishingly forthcoming.

 

Alastor’s scent marked every letter he sent in return. A calculated gesture, one Rosie found both strategic and mildly galling.

 

Her next announcement came with a forced calmness that could’ve cracked with the gentlest push.

 

“It seems,” she said, “we’ll be hosting a proper meeting. He’s been granted permission to court you within my borders.”

 

She didn’t voice the real meaning:

 

Your safety relies on my territory. Your behavior reflects upon me.

 

But Alastor heard it all the same.

 

She continued, tone brisk.

 

“There have been… incidents. Recent ones. Involving foolhardy Alphas overstepping in neighboring domains. I won’t tolerate such nonsense here. You will be supervised and he will be monitored.”

 

A faint look of displeasure tightened her features before she added:

 

“And I’d rather you dress in something… Omega-appropriate. Something form-fitting.”

 

Of course she would.

 

Alastor offered no protest.

 

But the effort Rosie put into “properly” presenting him often veered into a level of theatricality he found equal parts amusing and suffocating.

 

Within an hour he was corseted again, the garment cinched tightly enough to force his waist in and his shoulders back. The material bit into his ribs and spine, demanding shallow breaths. The laces hugged a crisp white, long-sleeved shirt; the dark trousers clung to his hips and thighs, fitted so snugly he could almost hear the Beta’s internal monologue:

 

If one must tempt an Alpha, one should at least do so elegantly.

 

Alastor eyed himself in the mirror.

 

The outfit echoed the ensemble he’d worn at the castle - deliberate, memorable. It would stir Vox’s recollection of their first encounter and likely provoke a reaction stronger than flowers or letters ever could.

 

He adjusted the corset with a small tug, ensuring it sat perfectly.

 

“Well,” he murmured to himself, a faint, wicked smile curving his lips, “if he wished for a courtship… it seems like he'll be getting one.”

Chapter 7: 7

Vox was, in many ways, a likable Alpha.
 

In all the expected ways, he was typical - possessive, hierarchical in his thinking and steeped in archaic notions of Omega propriety. And yet he packaged these instincts in a strangely gentle, almost permissive exterior. He wanted to lead, yes, but he also wanted Alastor to participate, to smile at him and approve of him. He wanted harmony - not ostentatious dominance - so long as he was still the one guiding the arrangement.

 

He arrived at Alastor’s door with a bouquet in hand; another extravagant bundle of hellish roses, their petals deep red and their thorns wickedly sharp. Alastor accepted the offering with a demure grace that made Vox’s projected face warm with flickering static.

 

He reached deliberately with the hand adorned with the blue bracelet Vox had gifted him days prior. The Alpha’s expression brightened the moment he noticed it, satisfaction blooming openly across his screen.

 

“I’m quite fond of red,” Alastor murmured, peering down at the roses.

 

He lifted them to his nose, inhaling their red-hot fragrance with a delicate sniff. The way he dipped his head - soft with lashes lowered - allowed him to peer up at Vox from beneath them, his smile quiet but unmistakably charming.

 

Vox’s breath hitched.

It was subtle, but not subtle enough.

 

Alastor's smile sharpened just a touch in reaction.

 

“Well, come in,” he said, lightly. “I’ll put these in water. I’d hate for them to wilt.”

 

He stepped back into the small home, allowing Vox to cross the threshold. The Alpha hesitated - just a single heartbeat - as he walked into the wall of Alastor’s scent. It wrapped around him instantly, warm and spiced, clinging to his senses.

 

When the door closed behind him, Vox got his first real look at Alastor’s living space.

 

And he was… surprised.

 

It was small. Pleasant. Tidy. Nothing extravagant or indulgent. Everything an Omega would “need,” neatly arranged, easy to access.

 

Vox softened visibly.
 

This, to him, was right.
 

This was natural.

Omegas belonged in pleasant little spaces, surrounded by order and warmth. A home like this was a reflection of their inner virtues.

 

Alastor, humming softly, filled a vase with water. He worked meticulously, arranging each thorned stem with delicate precision. There was such contentment on his face as he tended to Vox’s gift - it made the Alpha feel something warm coil in his chest, something tender and old-fashioned.

 

He trailed behind Alastor’s movements with open fascination.

 

He’s perfect, Vox thought.

 

Curves accentuated by the corseted outfit Rosie forced him into. Clothing that hugged his legs and waist. The subtle sway of that soft, furred tail when he moved that matched the subtle swish of his hips.

And that scent - sweet and spiced and utterly intoxicating.

 

Vox had never courted an Omega before. He’d spent life and afterlife chasing career, fame and empire. A wife, a mate and a family - those things had been dreams for later, always postponed in favor of ambition.

 

Now eternity stretched before him and suddenly “later” was here.

 

His gaze lingered on Alastor’s waist, the slope of his unmarked neck and the serene diligence with which he arranged flowers. Vox imagined him in a home far grander than this - his home - wrapped in silks, wearing jewels that accented his eyes and fur. Well-fed, pampered and protected. A ring on his finger. A mark on his throat. His scent layered permanently over Alastor’s.

 

A beautiful Omega deserved nothing less.

 

And if Alastor had lived unclaimed in life - alone and unmated - that was nothing short of a tragedy. Vox could not fathom how such a rare beauty passed through the world untouched. Spinsterhood in an Omega was… well… deeply unfortunate.

 

But he was here now. And Vox could fix that.

 

He could offer stability. Luxury. Legacy.
 

He could give Alastor the life an Omega ought to desire.

 

He adjusted his tie, steeling himself with a renewed wave of confidence. He was an Overlord, after all. A rising star in the Pride Ring. A man of power, influence and ambition.

 

More than capable.
 

More than worthy.

 

He glanced up again - only to realize Alastor was already standing before him, grinning with that unerring sweetness he wielded so precisely.

 

“Hungry?” Alastor asked. His eyes glittered with faint amusement, as though he’d caught Vox lost in thought.

 

Vox blinked hard, static flickering around the edges of his screen. The Omega’s head cocked lightly, fixated upon his face with interest. 

 

“I - uh - yeah. Yeah, definitely.”

He clapped his hands together, forcing a more composed stance.

“What’s for dinner?”

 

Alastor’s smile deepened, warm and enigmatic.

 

“Something special,” he said.

 

Vox beamed. 

❧

Not only was Alastor a lovely Omega with a temperament that seemed tailor-crafted for courtship, but he could cook. Vox was nearly giddy at the discovery. He sat at the small dining table with the posture of a man accustomed to luxury and yet delighted by domesticity, watching as Alastor plated his meal with practiced ease.

 

He hardly lifted a finger.

 

The Omega glided from counter to table with effortless grace - placing dishes before Vox, adjusting the angles of plates and pouring drinks with a deft flick of the wrist. There was a flourish to every movement, a faint theatricality woven through the domestic ritual. Even his voice carried a gentle lilt, like a melodic note threaded into each sentence.

 

Vox felt… pampered. Cherished, even.

 

And the meal was impressive.

Carnivorous in nature - several varieties of meat cooked into spice-heavy dishes that resembled beef, shellfish and fish. Rice balanced the heavy flavors. The drink accompanying it was peculiar: a homemade lemonade, both tart and sweet, its flavor bright against the richness of the meal.

 

Vox took a sip, blinking in mild surprise.

“That’s - wow. That’s different.”

 

“Too sour?” Alastor asked.

 

“No, no - it’s… good. Really good,” he insisted, taking another sip as if to convince himself. “Just unique.”

 

“I enjoy striking a balance,” Alastor murmured. “Sweetness without losing bite.”

 

Vox chuckled, charmed.

“Guess that fits you pretty well, huh?”

 

The Omega only smiled, soft and inscrutable, turning away to sit across from him with his own, smaller portion.

 

Light conversation flowed effortlessly between them. Vox found it shockingly easy to talk to him - not because Alastor was especially chatty, but because he was a remarkable listener. He tilted his head at all the right moments and made small noises of curiosity. 

 

It helped, of course, that they shared a rare overlap in passions. Broadcast media. The ever-developing craft of shaping a narrative and feeding it to the masses.

 

Vox spoke eagerly about his rising media empire, the networks he had devoured thus far, the inefficiencies he intended to correct and the innovations he planned to bring to Hell’s stagnant broadcast culture.

 

Alastor listened with the faint smile of someone amused by the future - because he had died in the past.

 

“It’s strange,” Vox admitted as he wiped a bit of sauce from the corner of his screen. “I mean - you talk about radio like it’s brand new. Like it’s still magic.”

 

“In my time,” Alastor replied, gently swirling his drink, “it was.”

 

“I forget…” Vox leaned back, studying him with growing wonder. “You’re older than me. A lot older.”

 

Alastor arched a brow.

A silent invitation.

Go on.

 

“How many years between us?” Vox mused, rubbing the back of his neck. “Decades? Honestly, I didn’t expect to be courting someone who - well - lived and died before I was even a twinkle in my parent’s eye.”

 

Alastor’s lip quirked. “Does my age trouble you, Vincent?”

 

“What? No - no!” Vox nearly choked on a laugh. “If anything, it’s impressive. You’re… seasoned.”

 

“‘Seasoned,’” Alastor repeated, tone amused.

 

“I mean that in a good way!” Vox insisted. “You’ve lived. You’ve seen things I’ve only ever heard about. It’s kinda incredible.”

 

He caught himself rambling and stopped, cheeks flickering with static.

 

Alastor watched him fondly, tapping one claw lightly against his glass.

 

Inside, he catalogued every word and every assumption. Every little slip that revealed Vox’s worldview. 

 

“How strange indeed,” Alastor murmured, his voice velvet-smooth, “to find yourself courting someone older and wiser.”

 

Vox swallowed, deeply enthralled.

 

“Yes,” he said, quietly. “Strange… but lucky.”

 

And Alastor, ever the gentleman Omega, simply smiled - small and sweet - while behind it all, his mind turned like a clockwork mechanism, already calculating the next step as Vox squirmed beneath the intensity of his gaze. 

 

“So - I - uh - was wondering,” Vox began, the hesitation in his voice palpable. He shifted in his seat, straightening his tie as though bracing himself for something delicate. “You mentioned… not having a family before. I mean - beyond the one you were born into, you know?”

 

Alastor didn’t tense. He didn’t blink. He only lifted his gaze with a soft, knowing look. 

 

“Let me guess,” the Omega replied, voice smooth as lacquered wood. “You’re wondering why.”

 

“Well. Yeah.” Vox’s projected brows knit together in earnest confusion. “I just - ”

 

He gestured vaguely in Alastor’s direction, an awkward sweep of a clawed hand as though motioning to the entire creature before him.

 

“You’re… pretty stunning, you know,” he said, sincerity dripping from every word. “I can only imagine what you looked like when you were alive.”

 

Alastor hummed - light, noncommittal - but his eyes glinted with amusement behind the rim of his glass.

 

Vox, oblivious, pressed on.

 

“I mean - usually an Omega with your looks… your presence… someone would’ve snapped you up. Provided for you. Made sure you were taken care of.” He smiled as though stating an obvious kindness. “Back then, a good Alpha wouldn’t have just let someone like you live alone.”

 

Alastor tilted his head. It was a slow, deliberate movement that carried just the hint of a predator coiling behind silk curtains.

 

“Oh?” he murmured. “How fortunate that you think so.”

 

Vox leaned an elbow on the table, his projected expression softening into something warm and openly admiring.

 

“I just don’t get it,” he admitted. “Were the Alphas back then blind? Or stupid? Or just cowards?” He snorted lightly in disbelief. “I mean, my God - if I’d met you back then, I’d have put a ring on your finger before anyone else even breathed in your direction.”

 

The words were ‘sweet’.
 

Staggeringly ‘sweet’.
 

And painfully telling.

“It is flattering,” Alastor said mildly, swirling the condensation on his glass with one claw, “to hear you think so highly of me. But circumstances in life were rarely kind to Omegas in that era - especially those who strayed from expectation.”

 

“Strayed?” Vox echoed, leaning in like a man preparing for a secret.

 

Alastor’s smile sharpened, just faintly.

 

“I may have been… particular.”

 

Vox blinked. “Particular?”

 

“Discerning,” Alastor corrected, gently. “Selective. Careful about whom I allowed near.”

 

Vox brightened, delighted. As though he finally understood whilst remaining entirely ignorant of the finer details. 

“So you were waiting for the right Alpha.”

 

A low chuckle escaped Alastor then - warm, velvety, and so carefully pitched between truth and mockery that no reasonable Alpha could decipher the difference.

 

“If that helps you sleep at night,” he purred, teasingly. “Then yes. Let’s say I was waiting.”

 

Vox practically glowed, his smile bright and hopeful. 

 

Alastor took another slow sip of his drink, lashes lowered over crimson eyes.

 

“Does that satisfy your curiosity, Vincent?” he asked, voice smooth as honey. 

 

Vox nodded, breath hitching with admiration.

“Yeah,” he rasped. “God, yeah.”

 

❧

 

Their little arrangement ended on an undeniably pleasant note. Alastor escorted Vox to the door. He stood framed in the warm light of his entryway, blinking slowly and contentedly - just enough softness around the eyes to seem genuine. Just enough warmth to lure.

 

Vox seemed utterly charmed.

 

“This was nice, Alastor,” he said, voice warm and full of earnest hope. “Really nice.”

 

“Indeed it was,” the Omega replied, his voice like velvet.

 

Vox lingered, nearly bouncing on his heels as his projected lips curved upward. “I’m hoping we can do something like this again. Sometime soon?”

 

Alastor let a breathy little laugh escape him - a deceptively delicate note.

 

“I’d love that, Vincent.”

 

His voice carried a purposeful softness, carefully constructed as though peeled directly from an Omega etiquette manual: pliant enough to stroke Vox’s ego, but not so eager as to appear desperate. Just an expertly balanced facsimile of budding affection.

 

He extended his hand - clawed fingers slender, posture open.

 

Vox lit up like a man seeing sunlight for the first time.

 

The Alpha took the offered hand reverently, as though accepting a priceless heirloom rather than a simple gesture. His thumb brushed over Alastor’s knuckles, lingering. Then he lifted the hand to his projected mouth, pressing a gentle, courtly kiss upon the back of it.

 

Alastor allowed the touch, eyelids fluttering just enough to mimic bashful pleasure.

 

Vox glanced up, hopeful - achingly so.

 

His projected face brightened the moment he caught the carefully crafted look of satisfaction curving faintly at the corners of Alastor’s lips. A look Alastor planted there on purpose. A calculated little seed.

 

The Alpha beamed, so transparently delighted it bordered on naive.

 

“Goodnight, Alastor,” he murmured, almost breathless.

 

“Goodnight, Vincent,” Alastor replied, impeccably pleasant.

 

The door closed gently behind the Overlord.

 

❧

 

Alastor’s lips pursed neatly around the end of his cigarette, the tip glowing a soft, ember-red as he drew in a lungful of fragrant smoke. Nicotine warmed his chest like a slow-burning ember - calming and grounding. He lounged in the half-shadow of his back doorstep, one leg crossed over the other as he leaned, watching distantly as Niffty attacked his clothing with a level of ferocity usually reserved for exorcisms.

 

She scrubbed, muttering darkly beneath her breath - an endless stream of complaints about Alphas, their stink, their arrogance and their “awful boundary issues.” Her movements were jittery, intense - her small body a bundle of raw, twitching nerves.

 

She’d become increasingly agitated with every new gift Vox sent: bouquets, trinkets, letters and carefully curated tokens meant to charm. Each delivery left her bristling and snarling. 

 

She had ripped the bracelet off his wrist the moment the intruding Alpha had taken his leave. 

 

“Blue’s so ugly on you, Alastor,” she hissed, her single eye narrowed, teeth flashing in a pointed, almost animalistic grin. “Red is better. Much, much better.”

 

He exhaled a curl of smoke through flared nostrils - unbothered, though faintly amused.

 

He knew Vox’s type. He had known them in life - brown faces, white faces, smiling faces. They all hid the same glimmer of intent behind their eyes. Hopeful and entitled in equal measure. Drawn to him for reasons they couldn’t articulate, convinced they could claim him with a ring or a vow or a handful of sweet words.

 

Men like that always thought they were hunters.

 

And every single one of them had learned differently.

 

Waylaying them had taken effort, of course. A bit of planning. A bit of patience. And eventually, an abrupt disappearance - always sudden and clean. His fondest memories were those nights when he’d taken them apart piece by piece. Slow and methodical. Tender, even. Reclaiming control by breaking them down to their most useful parts. Harvesting their rich and decadently savory meat. 

 

Alpha meat had always been his favorite.

 

He tapped ash into the small tin beside him, eyes half-lidded as an idle smile curled across his lips.

 

It amused him - deeply - that he had knowingly fed Vox scraps from corpses. Folded into stews, fried into crisp medallions, diced fine and mixed with seasonings until no trace of their true origin lingered. Vox had eaten every bite with praise on his tongue, none the wiser.

 

A small, private victory.

 

A reminder of who truly held the reins here.

 

Not that he had any desire to kill Vox. He doubted he could in this body. Not cleanly. Not efficiently. And, if he was honest, it would be a terrible waste. The man was far too easy to please, far too earnest in his affections and far too entertaining in his naïveté.

 

No - he hoped Vox would live quite a long afterlife. A successful one, too. The Pride Ring could use a bit of order and Vox was presently clawing his way upward with startling efficiency.

 

With any luck, no Overlord would succeed in culling him from their ranks.

 

It would be such a shame to lose something so… pliable.

 

Alastor tapped his cigarette one last time, watching the embers dance.

Chapter 8: 8

Alastor had long since learned to weaponize the illusion of intimacy.

 

Sex, to him, was neither indulgence nor temptation. It was not forbidden fruit. It was not hunger. It was nothing. A hollow thing that tugged no strings and lit no fires. A biological ritual his body could perform but his mind never cared to participate fully in. His flesh might warm and respond out of instinct, but he felt none of the heady pull others described and none of the yearning. 

 

It was simply… mechanical.

 

He could endure it. Even perform it well. But the act demanded attentiveness to another’s needs - needs that he found almost offensively inconvenient. The pleasure of others rarely aligned with his own priorities. Satisfaction, for him, came from control, not carnality.

 

Still - sex had its uses.

 

It was bait. A leash to tug upon. A door left cracked just wide enough for him to slip a knife between the ribs of those who underestimated him. His body, delicate and finely made, could be a lure. A snare. A carefully maintained canvas on which others projected fantasies he had no intention of fulfilling.

 

In Hell, that made him dangerous in an underhanded way. 

 

Because Hell had shaped its Omegas into tools long before Alastor learned to sharpen himself.

 

Omegas were expected to behave in particular ways - soft and enticingly pliant. Their mannerisms were scrutinized as closely as their scent. Their clothes judged, their posture catalogued and their smiles interpreted as signs of readiness or receptiveness. They were meant to be docile and demure. Chaste until claimed. Useful once marked. And - preferably - content in their station.

 

The unclaimed walked a narrower line. They were to present themselves as desirable but modest; alluring but untouched. Their hobbies were expected to be gentle: cleaning, crafting, music - things that soothed, not challenged. Their attire could be elegant, even flirtatious, so long as the flesh remained mostly concealed beneath material. A tease, never an invitation.

 

And suitors circled them like wolves around a tethered lamb.

 

Suitors.

 

Alphas.

 

Strange creatures, when one really studied them. So powerful, yes - but so very predictable. They were a type of specimen sculpted by instinct and sharpened by ego, leaning heavily on the advantages granted to them by birthright. Their strength was innate and their stamina supernatural. Hell rewarded such traits with one hand and punished them with the other.

 

Alphas were funneled into endless conflict. Their lives - both mortal and infernal - were shaped by conquest and bloodshed. They rose quickly to stations of power, only to be locked in perpetual battle to keep it. Territory shifted. Borders bled. Alliances snapped under pressure. An Alpha who faltered, even for a moment, could be devoured by a rival just as hungry as they once were.

 

It was a vicious cycle, perfectly tailored to ruin them.

 

Betas fared no better, trapped in a duller prison. Painfully average by design, they made up the majority of Hell’s denizens. They could climb the ladder, yes - but every rung was rusted and slick with effort. They suffered through mediocrity while Alphas flourished and Omegas were collected like rare, ornamental pets.

 

But it was the Omegas who bore the cruelest fate.

 

They were the minority. Hell weakened them deliberately, dampening their infernal gifts until only the faint echoes of potential remained. Their bodies were reshaped into something delicate, something desirable and easily processed in the bowels of the Pride Ring. Their souls were chained in such a way that ascent was next to impossible. Even the fiercest Omega could rise no higher than the shadow of the one who “owned” them.

 

They were ornaments to powerful men and women.

 

Currency in the political landscape.

 

And yet - Alastor somehow thrived within that narrow cage. Escaping the usual fate reserved for his kind. 

 

He understood the game too well in life. He understood the expectations and twisted them to his advantage. He could play the obedient companion - lovely and attentive - while quietly and carefully making pawns of the very creatures who believed him harmless.

 

He did not need strength to win.

 

He only needed others to underestimate him.

 

And Alphas… always did.

 

Such stupid, silly creatures. 

❧

 

It began innocuously - soft touches, nothing more. A brush of fingers against his own during conversation, the ghost of claws at the small of his back meant only to guide, never to lay claim. Vox treated him as something fragile and something he feared mishandling. And in Hell - where Alphas were encouraged to seize, not request - such restraint was rare enough to be noteworthy.

 

It left an impression upon Alastor.

 

Most denizens of the Pride Ring had no qualms with testing the boundaries of an unclaimed Omega. A casual touch here, an invasive brush there - always masked as courtesy, always meant to gauge pliancy. Vox, however, navigated him as though the wrong move might send him bolting like the very prey his form echoed.

 

How sickeningly sweet. 

 

There was caution in the way Vox’s hand would hover before settling upon him. A moment of hesitation before each point of contact - as if silently asking permission without daring to voice the request aloud. His clawed fingertips would skim along the curve of Alastor’s spine or graze his wrists during conversation, lingering only long enough to test the waters.

 

His entire approach was gradual. Deliberate. A slow-building warmth meant to coax rather than overwhelm. Alastor recognized it for what it was; an Alpha attempting to court without invoking fear, aiming to acclimate an Omega to his presence step by tentative step.

 

And for Vox, this pace was obviously agonizing.

 

More than once, the television-headed man had looked as though he wished to do more. His projected expression would flicker, glitch and glow faintly with restrained want. His clawed hands would twitch and curl. His scent would spike with desire before he pulled it back under tight control.

 

He wanted. Badly.

 

But he waited.

 

Alastor couldn’t decide whether it was charming or pathetic.

 

His own reactions, in contrast, were carefully measured - engineered, even. He offered small, curated signals of encouragement. A slight lean toward Vox when he brushed past. A softened tone whenever the Alpha drew closer. A lingering glance paired with a faint tilt of the head, implying openness without surrendering ground.

 

It allowed Vox to believe he was progressing - allowed him to imagine a budding closeness, a building, mutual attraction. But never enough to embolden him into assuming rights he had not earned.

 

It was a delicate dance. The Alpha inching closer, step by step. The Omega allowing just enough warmth to keep him hopeful and eager to please.

 

And Vox - poor, earnest Vox - interpreted every measured gesture as genuine reciprocity. His projected screen brightened with each timid success. His scent grew sweeter, tinged with soft, pleased confidence.

 

He thought he was winning the Omega’s heart.

 

And so the intimacy evolved.

 

❧

They’d indulged in a bit of drink - nothing overly decadent, but enough to soften the edges of the evening. Rosie had allowed them an outing to the local bar; a quaint, cramped building whose charm lay chiefly in its familiarity. The air was thick with smoke and old alcohol, the scent soaked so deeply into the wooden walls that it felt almost alive. A persistent haze drifted overhead, illuminated periodically by the flicker of dim neon signage.

 

Jazz floated lazily through the room - the sort of tune that tugged at memory rather than attention. Alastor let his eyes fall shut for a moment, letting the mellow thrum of saxophone curl through him. It pulled him back to smoke-filled lounges and polished dance floors. To a world of sweat and heat and swing - when he’d still been alive.

 

A gentle warmth tugged him back to the present.

 

Vox had claimed his hand.

 

The Alpha lifted it to his projected lips, pressing a kiss against the knuckles - curiously warm, faintly buzzing with static. Not unpleasant. Merely… novel. Alastor’s eyes opened slowly. Half-lidded. A brow arched in silent inquiry.

 

Vox swallowed.

 

“So, I’ve been wondering, Alastor,” he began, tentative as ever.

 

His clawed thumb traced small circles against the back of Alastor’s hand - careful, nervous and reverent in the way only an Alpha trying very hard not to overstep could be.

 

“We’ve… uh. We’ve been seeing each other a while now, right?”

 

“A few months, yes,” the Omega replied, calm and unhurried as he lifted his drink again. His tone made it sound like he was discussing weather, not courtship. “Why do you ask?”

 

Vox’s projected screen flickered, betraying nerves.

 

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat, “I was talking with Rosie.”

 

Alastor paused mid-sip.

 

“Mm?”

 

“And I - uh - she mentioned you’re almost due for your yearly cycle.”

 

The words hung in the air like a dropped glass.

 

Alastor’s smile didn’t vanish, but it changed. Tightened. Sharpened. His gaze cut toward Vox with all the delicacy of a scalpel.

 

“…and?” he asked, softly.

 

That single syllable made Vox visibly squirm. His scent wavered - anxious, unsure and tinged with a hopeful sweetness that made Alastor’s ears twitch in faint irritation.

 

“I was thinking maybe we could, uh… you know…” Vox’s voice lowered, as though afraid the bar patrons might overhear. “Share it.”

 

He laughed. A thin, awkward little sound. His gaze darted anywhere but the Omega’s eyes.

 

“I mean -... since you don’t have anyone picked out yet.”

 

Alastor resisted - barely - the urge to roll his eyes. It would have been too revealing. Too honest. Instead, he dipped his head just slightly, letting a soft, indulgent grin curl at his lips. His smile strained only a touch at the edges, his brows lowering by a fraction - just enough to imply gentle consideration instead of annoyance.

 

“Vox,” he murmured, his tone sliding toward a velvet softness that made the Alpha straighten in hope. “That’s quite the suggestion.”

 

The Alpha nodded quickly - too quickly.

 

“I just - well - I care about you, Alastor,” Vox said, earnest in a way that was almost painful to witness. “And I figured… if you needed someone you trusted… well. I’d be honored.”

 

Alastor tampered down the spike of irritation that shot through him. Yearly cycles were metaphorical landmines for unclaimed Omegas. Partners chosen for heat were often argued to have claims afterward. It was not a request made lightly, nor an offer given without implication.

 

It was a bid.

 

A quiet, desperate bid.

 

A way for Vox to secure his place without asking outright.

 

How quaint.

 

“I see,” Alastor replied at last, his voice soft. 

 

And Vox - hopeful, naïve and utterly unaware of the razor-sharp thoughts behind that gentle smile - brightened visibly.

 

“Well?” Vox pressed, leaning in as though proximity alone might secure the moment.

 Alastor did not answer immediately. He merely hummed - soft and ambiguous - while lifting his drink once more.

 

The pause stretched.

 

Vox held perfectly still, breath locked tight in his chest. His grip tightened around Alastor’s hand, claws curling with an anxious desperation he likely believed subtle. It wasn’t. Nothing an Alpha did was subtle.

 

Alastor’s lips parted around the rim of his glass, drawing in the last sip with a lazy elegance. His mouth gleamed faintly in the low light - moist and soft. Mesmerizing.

 

When he pulled the glass away, the Omega’s expression was… indecipherable. Empty, almost. A perfect mask.

 

And then he turned his gaze back to Vox.

 

The shift was immediate, electric. His grin sharpened, teeth gleaming like polished, yellowed ivory in the dimness. A predator’s smile wearing the softness of prey.

 

Vox’s projected eyes flicked helplessly to that mouth. Again. And again. As though magnetized.

 

He leaned in a fraction without realizing it.

 

Alastor let him.

 

His voice descended into a low, velvet croon - dangerous in its softness.

 

“Do you want me, Vox?”

 

It wasn’t a genuine question. It was a test. A tease. A hook.

 

Vox snapped.

That bright blue line flickered open and shut, revealing sharp teeth of his own. His head bobbed so quickly it bordered on embarrassing - eager, desperate and burning with instinct and want.

 

“Yes,” he breathed. “God, yes. I do.”

 

“Really?”

 

The word rolled off Alastor’s tongue with a sultry, teasing cadence. His eyelids lowered in a slow, purposeful flutter. He let the silence stretch between them - just long enough for Vox to wonder whether he’d misstepped.

 

Then Alastor slipped his hand free.

 

Just like that.

 

Vox’s entire posture jolted - disappointment flaring across his projected face. Fear crept in next. Fear of rejection. Fear of having pushed too far. And fear of losing something he so clearly believed he’d nearly secured.

 

But before he could speak - 

 

Alastor closed the distance.

 

He moved with abrupt, deliberate elegance - a predator’s precision wrapped in an Omega’s softness. His mouth pressed directly against the warm surface of Vox’s screen. The contact sent a violent jolt through the Alpha’s frame, static flaring across the glass like lightning trapped beneath the surface.

 

Vox gasped - a glitching burst of sound - and for a heartbeat he simply froze, overwhelmed.

 

But instinct rallied quickly.

 

Those strong arms snapped around Alastor’s waist, clutching tightly as if afraid the Omega might vanish between breaths. He fumbled, of course - clumsy and overeager - but the effort was earnest. His hands shook with the intensity of it.

 

Alastor allowed it.

 

He tilted his head just so, guiding the angle, showing Vox how to follow his lead without ever breaking the illusion that the Alpha was taking charge. It was a delicate manipulation - letting him feel powerful while remaining wholly in control.

 

When he finally pulled away, Vox looked moments away from overheating. His screen pulsed a distinct shade of blue at the edges, static lingering like a blush he couldn’t hide. His posture was rigid, trembling with adrenaline, instinct and want.

 

Alastor watched him with sharp-eyed interest  - tilting his head, tongue flicking out to wet his lips in a slow, predatory sweep. As though tasting the remnants of Vox’s flavor. As though considering whether he liked it.

 

The effect on Vox was immediate.

His posture appeared to weaken. His projected lips parted helplessly. His scent - bright, crackling with startled desire - spiked in the space between them.

 

How charming.

 

Alastor was an old, practiced bitch - experienced and far more dangerous than the picture he presented. Vox, in comparison, had just betrayed himself as painfully fresh. 

 

Exactly what Alastor had suspected.

 

“I’ll consider your offer,” Alastor murmured, smooth as polished brass.

 

Vox’s arms remained locked around him, holding him as though the decision might change if he dared to let go. The Omega arched a brow - just one, perfectly choreographed.

Obediently, Vox released him.

 

The tiny gesture of compliance pleased Alastor greatly. Vox’s flush deepened at the silent approval, his posture folding in on itself as he cleared his throat, suddenly shy again.

 

Alastor resumed sipping his drink, unhurried. His grin never faltered. He didn’t even glance down when a clawed hand settled at his thigh. 

 

❧

The estrous cycle for an Omega was a yearly event - an unavoidable biological ritual carved into flesh and instinct. No magic, no power and no cleverness could circumvent it. It arrived like clockwork: once every three hundred and sixty-five days, a precise and merciless cadence. And within that vast stretch of time, there were seven days - only seven - where the body shifted into its most vulnerable, volatile state.

 

Seven days where the world felt sharper.

Seven days where instincts screamed.

 

Seven days where an Omega was at once most dangerous and most easily claimed.

 

The cycle followed an ancient pattern:

 

First came the blood. 

A telltale, metallic scent that clung to skin and fabric; an unmistakable signal flooding the air. It was a red flag - obvious, humiliating and deeply dangerous. It warned every Alpha in a dozen-yard radius that an Omega was approaching their fertile window.

 

Alastor loathed it.

 

Through those bleeding days, most Omegas turned irritable or openly hostile, teeth bared at any creature foolish enough to approach. Their bodies ached; their tempers frayed. Instinct drove them to snarl and snap and society politely pretended that this was entirely normal.

 

Then came the warmth. 

A slow, creeping heat that unfurled along the spine and belly - a chemical softening of every instinctive barrier. The hostility melted into something deceptively inviting. An Omega in this phase became receptive, their scent rich and intoxicating. They grew playful and warm. Their bodies leaned and brushed; subtle invitations to those close enough to sense the shift.

 

It was a natural cycle - beautiful to some, sacred to others - but to Alastor?

 

Inconvenient didn’t begin to describe it.

 

The blood bothered him more than the heat. It was too visible. Too obvious. It drew attention like sharks to a wound in the water. That first iron-scented drop announced his vulnerability to every creature with a functioning nose. Omegas in the Pride Ring often cloistered themselves away during those days; those foolish enough to remain among the populace risked being sniffed out and cornered.

 

Alastor had never tolerated such attention.

 

In life, the moment he sensed the shift - the telltale ache, the first faint tang of iron as crimson smeared his loins and thighs - he vanished. He parted from society without announcement or farewell, slipping away into the depths of his bayou. There, cloaked in marsh mist and darkness, he endured the cycle in private. Far from prying eyes. Far from nosy neighbors. Far from Alphas who believed they had a birthright to him.

 

He’d paced his porch through bleeding days, cigarette smoke curling into humid night air.

He’d submerged in sluggish bayou water to cool the building warmth.

He’d let his cycle pass with no witness - no suitor, no mate and no interloper allowed within miles.

 

But now, he faced a decision he had never intended to entertain.

 

Avoidance - his tried and true method - was still an option. He could shutter himself away for seven days, bolt the door, let Niffty chase off any interlopers and endure the cycle alone. It would be cleaner. Safer. Predictable.

 

But it could also be… wasteful.

 

Because this time, unlike in life, he had a potential advantage on the table.

 

Vox.

 

A budding alliance. A carefully cultivated attachment. An Alpha who was powerful enough to be useful but soft enough to be molded. One with ambition, influence and an almost laughable willingness to believe in the fantasy of a romantic, mutually beneficial bond.

 

If handled correctly, Vox could be a shield, a weapon and a stepping-stone.

A partner in name only.

A resource dressed in devotion.

 

But sharing a cycle - even partially - risked complicating things.

 

He would need stipulations.

Strict ones.

 

Under no circumstances would Vox be permitted to:

• claim him,
• or initiate any act that could be misconstrued as “bonding.”

 

Alastor had no intention of tying himself to any Alpha - not for love, not for instinct and not for survival. The thought of such a vulnerability made his stomach twist with irritation. Submission as a performance he could manage; submission as a biological truth was intolerable.

 

And Vox, for all his gentleness, was an Alpha.

Instinct could override reason.

Heat could override promises.

And Alastor had no illusions about how quickly a situation could turn the moment pheromones thickened the air.

 

He’d need to discuss the matter with Rosie - thoroughly and immediately. She was his owner, nominally. His guardian by ‘law’. His shield in political matters, whether she liked it or not.

 

And this?

This was a political matter.

 

She would understand the risks.

She would understand the opportunity.

And she would certainly have opinions… likely strong ones.

 

Yes. He needed her counsel before Vox made another request, before the cycle crept closer and before the reek of iron betrayed him.

 

He rose from his seat, setting aside his empty glass. Vox rose behind him, intending to guide him home. 

 

He needed to speak with Rosie.

 

As soon as possible.

Chapter 9: 9

He was in need of a stronger scent-neutralizing agent.

 

Niffty had become increasingly neurotic as of late  - skittering through rooms with bared teeth and sharp little mutters, offended by every lingering trace of Alpha musk. To her, Vox’s presence in the home was an intrusion, a threat and a stain. And since her “territory” was, in essence, Alastor’s entire abode, she took the matter personally.

 

He soothed her only by assisting in stripping the place clean; peeling off anything the Alpha had touched, worn, brushed, grazed or even breathed near. Every gift was washed, steamed or tucked away. Nothing with Vox’s scent was kept out for longer than a day. Those items were displayed only when the Alpha visited - neatly arranged like they had always belonged - to give the illusion they had a permanent place in Alastor’s home.

 

Entirely unnecessary, of course. Vox was soft-hearted. Easy to placate. But the illusion, ultimately, cost him nothing and Alastor had time to spare.

 

Rosie’s punishment still hung over him. He remained effectively confined, permitted to leave only for tightly monitored outings with Vox and brief supervised visits to the parlor. She controlled his schedule with the meticulous caution of someone protecting both an asset and a liability.

 

The usual patrons noticed the change immediately.

 

Their nostrils flared when he passed. Eyes sharpened. Curious looks lingered on him longer than usual. Alastor had been among them for decades and he had always smelled solely of himself with the barest traces of Rosie’s fragrance present. 

 

Now?

There was a hint - barely more than a whisper - of Vox clinging to him.

 

Persistent. Irritatingly so. Alpha scent could cling like a damn curse.

Like a skunk, he thought, sourly.

No matter how thoroughly one scrubbed, it never faded entirely on the first attempt. It took days of separation and multiple washes before the last traces evaporated. And Omega skin - traitorous and soft - absorbed scent like a sponge. Instinctual biology designed to bind and signal. 

 

A perpetual irritation.

 

In life, he had dealt with the same nuisance. After every Alpha he’d lured into the bayou and taken apart piece by piece, he spent days isolating himself until their scent finally dissolved from his skin. Walking around reeking of a missing man was a surefire way to draw suspicion - not that anyone would naturally assume a delicate little Omega was capable of such carnage.

 

He exhaled sharply at the memory.

 

And then, in a quiet moment as they closed the shop together, he turned to Rosie.

 

“May I be so bold,” he began, voice smooth as glass but edged, “as to ask why you disclosed the date of my cycle to Vox?”

 

While it wasn't completely disadvantageous, the simple fact that Vox was aware of the general timing of his cycle was deeply unfortunate. And so he felt the need to confront Rosie on the matter prior to discussing the finer details of a potential arrangement.

 

Rosie didn’t even flinch. Her prim movements continued - closing a drawer, adjusting a display, straightening a stack. Only when she finished did she tilt her head toward him.

 

“Common courtesy,” she answered, crisply. “You’ll be out of commission for a week. The boy has a right to know why you’ve suddenly gone quiet.”

 

He nearly scoffed - but controlled it.

 

“Rosie,” he warned, tone a velvet-wrapped blade.

 

She arched a brow, unperturbed. 

 

“You know the game, Alastor. Don’t insult me by pretending otherwise.” Her gaze sharpened. “He asked for permission to raise the subject. I granted it.”

 

“It is hardly his business,” he snapped back - just a flicker of temper, but enough to crack his usual composure.

 

Rosie didn’t chastise him nor did she flinch. She simply met his gaze with a cool, unwavering steadiness.

 

“Oh, but it is,” she said. “Alastor, sweetie… you’ve been a spinster long enough. In life and in death. And after your… little stunt at the castle, it’s clear to me you’re restless.”

 

His eyes narrowed. “Elaborate.”

 

“It means your grace period is ending.” Her smile was pleasant; her tone was not. “And after all my kindness - all my protection, my charity - I expect you to compensate me. You owe me, pet.”

 

His left ear gave an irritated flick.

 

“And yet we haven’t struck a deal. Not a formal one,” he countered, voice dangerously soft. “I’m not obligated - ”

 

“Really now?” Rosie cut in smoothly. “I could throw you out tomorrow. Leave you on the curb. Let whichever beastie is quickest snap you up. What would you have without me, my darling?”

 

The last word dripped with sugar and venom both.

 

Alastor’s jaw tightened. His smile remained fixed but sharpened at the edges. His eyes - those bright, weaponlike eyes - flickered with open displeasure.

 

Rosie didn’t so much as blink.

 

“Vox is a good choice,” Rosie continued, her voice returning to that maddeningly placid cadence she used when she believed herself reasonable. “A safe choice. He’s sweet on you. Patient. He’ll give you what you need.”

 

Alastor’s smile thinned.

 

“And what,” he asked softly, “do I supposedly need?”

 

Her response was not gentle.

 

Rosie leveled him with a look - a hard, withering stare sharpened by years of navigating the Pride Ring’s hierarchy. Her lips tightened. Her nostrils flared as her eyes rounded to a disturbing degree. For a moment, the prim, genteel shopkeeper vanished, replaced by the Beta Overlord who had survived long enough to carve out her own territory in Hell

 

“You need someone who can keep you in your place,” she said.

Each word landed like a slap.

“Because it’s becoming painfully obvious, darling, that you don’t have the faintest idea where that place is.”

 

The room seemed to constrict around them.

 

Alastor’s expression darkened - not dramatically, not overtly, but with the subtle, deadly precision of a storm forming behind glass. His smile remained in place - elegant and empty - but his eyes sharpened to a vicious gleam.

 

And Rosie - damn her - stood straighter and lifted her chin. She peered down her perfect, delicate nose at him as though he were something misbehaving beneath her heel.

 

It was a quiet display of dominance.

He felt the flare of instinct - a broiling fury  - coil beneath his ribs like a live wire. The Omega in him bristled in reaction from the Beta’s display, but not from submission. It was insult. It was the memory of a lifetime spent keeping his place only long enough to destroy those who presumed he had one.

 

For a heartbeat, the space between them vibrated with tension. 

 

Alastor tipped his head, his smile stretching just a fraction too wide.

 

Rosie did not flinch.

 

She merely stepped closer, voice dipped in honeyed threat. Encroaching upon his space with a dangerous air - her scent unusually sharp as he breathed it in. 

 

“You’re clever. Ambitious. A little too bold for your own good.” She brushed an invisible speck from her sleeve. “And you’ve drawn the eyes of Lucifer and Adam both.”

 

Her gaze slid sideways - an unspoken reminder.

 

“And that is why you need someone to anchor you before you get us all killed.”

 

He exhaled lightly through his nose, the motion small - but his eyes gleamed with something sharp and unkind.

 

Rosie held his gaze.

 

Neither blinked.

 

The hierarchy between them should have forced him into a state of submission. Should have compelled him to bow, avert his gaze or murmur an apology. 

 

Instead he only smiled.

 

❧

Vox’s bid was accepted.

Rosie drafted the response herself, the letter written in her immaculate, looping script. It read like a legal decree rather than a romantic arrangement - predictable, given how cross she’d been with him as of late. She named every condition with crisp, authoritative finality: Alastor was not to be harmed. He was not to be bitten. No attempt at claiming would be tolerated. Contraceptives would be administered under her direct supervision, every dose witnessed and verified. Not even Vox was permitted the smallest latitude for “mistakes.”

 

The arrangement would last two full weeks, with additional days allotted to account for the unpredictable ebb and flow of an Omega’s estrous cycle. Rosie had folded the details into polite, ritualistic phrasing, but the meaning was unmistakable: Alastor was being handed over, temporarily, with the same measured detachment one would apply in transferring possession of an asset.

 

It was humiliating.

 

Expected of an unclaimed Omega, perhaps. Normal, even. But Alastor felt the insult as surely as a blade pressed against the back of his neck. This was the price of drawing too much attention onto himself. The price of stepping too boldly into a world that Hell insisted was not made for him. And while he had the option to reject the offer, he’d been left with the distinct impression that there would be dire consequences.

 

He accepted the humiliation in silence. He had learned, across decades and two separate lives, that silence was often the most efficient weapon in his arsenal. It gave him space - space to think, to plan and to twist insults into opportunities and indignities into leverage.

 

So he set about preparing. 

 

Not stiffly, nor resentfully - just with the cool, methodical precision that had always carried him through life. He folded clothing with a steady hand, sliding shirts and trousers into a travel case. Rosie had insisted he be kept under a stricter schedule until this arrangement was concluded, a signal that she no longer trusted him to navigate the boundaries of her territory without supervision. Even so, he made no protest. He simply tucked away more grooming tools and quiet comforts than he would ever admit to needing.

What Rosie envisioned as punishment - an enforced stay under Vox’s protective eye - Alastor recognized for what it truly was: unprecedented access. A sanctioned invitation into an Overlord’s home, woven neatly into the fabric of tradition and etiquette. For two weeks, he would walk Vox’s halls openly. Study his defenses. His routines. His temperament. His secrets.

 

He doubted the Overlord understood the vulnerability he was offering up. He doubted Rosie understood it either. She thought to “settle” him. To tether him. To remind him of the boundaries of his caste and the reality that even resourceful Omegas could not afford to provoke their world of kings, executioners and the Overlords that bent a knee to them. 

 

But Alastor had never been particularly good at staying in anyone’s place but his own.

 

As he snapped the latch of his suitcase closed, a slow smile curled across his lips. The kind of smile that would have made Vox fluster and Rosie uneasy.

 

Niffty hovered.

 

Not subtly, either - she paced in tight, anxious circles around him, her small feet tapping frantically against the wood floor as her gaze darted between Alastor and the neatly packed suitcase at his side. Every few seconds her hands would clench in the fabric of her dress, twisting the material until it creased. The expression on her tiny face wavered between worry and outright distress, a stark contrast to her usual chipper frenzy.

 

Alastor watched her with a softened amusement, the cigarette presently tucked between his lips untouched as it slowly burned down. When she finally stopped pacing long enough to stare at him - wide-eyed, fretful - he exhaled a gentle plume of smoke and offered a calm, practiced smile.

 

“Niffty,” he murmured, “my dear girl, I’ll be fine.”

 

Her lower lip quivered. “You say that,” she replied, her voice tinny with suspicion. “But Alphas get strange when Omegas leave home. They get - … “Her nose wrinkled. “Grabby.”

 

He resisted the urge to laugh. It was almost endearing how fiercely she guarded him, as though she were the one tasked with defending the household from predatory Overlords.

 

“A few weeks,” he promised, lifting a hand to tap her forehead lightly with one claw. “At the most.”

 

Niffty blinked up at him, her lashes fluttering in rapid succession before she nodded - once, twice and then several more times in quick, jerky bobs. She inhaled sharply, wiping her hands on her apron as though preparing for a difficult task.

 

“…Okay,” she said at last, though the word trembled. “But if he hurts you, Alastor - if he even tries - I’ll tear out his circuits and use his motherboard as a coaster.”

 

Alastor’s smile widened, pleased despite himself.

“Duly noted.”

 

Niffty reached out, hesitating only a moment before grabbing his sleeve and giving it a firm tug - not enough to stop him, but enough to make her point clear.

 

“Come back,” she said, quietly. 

 

“I will,” he replied, warmly. 

❧

 

Alastor’s gaze slid toward the vehicle the moment he heard the low, velvet purr of its engine. It wasn’t the sort of transport one typically saw in Cannibal Town. It was almost too sleek, too polished and too new. The glossy black exterior reflected the buildings around it, creating a strange, distorted mirror of his humble little street. It looked like a foreign beast dropped into unfamiliar terrain, all sharpened lines and tinted windows.

 

He stepped closer, drawn in by his own curiosity. The door clicked open with an expensive-sounding hiss and out stepped Vox - sharp suit, polished shoes, and - 

 

Different.

 

Alastor’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. The Alpha’s silhouette had changed. The bulkier box-like frame of his head had softened into something sleeker, smoother. The edges were refined, the casing polished. An upgrade. A new body that was a touch broader. A better television.

 

A new face.

 

Vox must have caught the faint flicker in Alastor’s expression, because he froze mid-stride. His lips flickered uncertainly, projecting a brief glitch of insecurity before smoothing into something shy and brittle.

 

“Oh. Uh - yeah,” he said, scratching the side of his new jawline. “I… upgraded. Do you - ?”

A beat.

“What do you think?”

 

The question hung heavily, weighted with earnestness he likely didn’t intend to reveal. His voice carried an unmistakable strain - hopeful and hungry for approval.

 

Alastor let the silence linger just long enough for Vox to squirm, then allowed his smile to sharpen the tiniest bit.

 

“It’s different,” he murmured, tone smooth but unreadable. “But nothing I can’t grow accustomed to.”

 

Not praise. Not condemnation. A perfectly balanced response - neutral and polite, yet impossible to interpret fully.

 

Vox’s projector-mouth flickered again before adjusting into a pleased, if slightly stiff, smile. “Great. Good. Uh… great.”

 

The embarrassment radiating off him was almost sweet.

 

“Let’s - let’s get going,” the Alpha said, haltingly. 

 

He stepped aside, gesturing toward the open back door with a flourish that attempted charm but landed somewhere closer to overeager. Then, without waiting for permission, he reached for Alastor’s suitcase. The Omega let him take it, observing with faint amusement as Vox handled it with exaggerated care - placing it in the trunk as though the bag held something fragile or precious.

 

Perhaps Vox believed it did.

 

Alastor remained poised, hands clasped gently before him, expression serene - yet his crimson eyes glittered as he approached the waiting door of the luxurious vehicle.

Chapter 10: 10

Notes:

I do enjoy writing soft!Vox. A small pity this version of his character will only ever be present in these early chapters.

The streets beyond Rosie’s domain were unkind in a way that Cannibal Town never allowed itself to be. There, filth was managed - curated, even. A necessary byproduct of survival handled with the same pragmatic efficiency as butchery and commerce. But once the vehicle crossed the invisible border into the city proper, Alastor found himself staring at a wasteland of grime layered thick over concrete. Mud was streaked with something darker; trash accumulated in gutters where no one bothered to sweep; bodies - fresh and not-so-fresh - were slumped against brick facades, left to swell and rot under Hell’s crimson haze.

 

Alastor watched it all unfold through the tinted glass, crimson eyes glinting as he catalogued every discarded shape, every smear on the pavement. The urban sprawl pulsed with chaos and uncaring apathy, a stark contrast to the sanitized savagery of Cannibal Town.

 

A warm touch at his hand tugged him from his quiet assessment. He turned just enough to meet Vox’s projected expression - an almost tender glow playing along the screen’s edges, a softness at odds with the ugliness outside.

 

“Rosie told me you’ve hardly stepped outside Cannibal Town since you got here,” Vox said, his tone gentle but edged with curiosity. “Figured this might be… a lot.”

 

Alastor’s attention flicked back to the window. “It’s more than what I’m used to, yes,” he admitted, lightly. “And undeniably dreary.”

 

Vox followed his gaze, grimacing faintly as though seeing the filth for the first time. “You’re not wrong,” he said with surprising honesty. “Most of the city’s a dump. But” - his voice warmed - “it’s not all bad. My sector? Different story. I keep my area clean. Not exactly safe. But it’s efficient.”

 

A hum escaped Alastor - neither agreement nor dissent. Vox’s pride, however, was palpable.

 

The ride continued in relative ease, the kind of silence that only arose between two individuals who had grown accustomed to sharing space. 

 

“This is it,” Vox announced, suddenly.

 

The car followed a smooth curve, and Alastor’s breath caught - not from fear, but genuine, unguarded awe.

 

Towering above the other buildings, its obsidian surface gleaming beneath Hell’s shifting light, was Vox’s headquarters. It rose like a monument, a cathedral of glass and steel. The red glow of the sky reflected off its surface in violent streaks, giving it a molten sheen. Antennae and broadcast spires crowned its highest point, pulsing faintly with energy.

 

“Astonishing,” Alastor murmured, unable - unwilling - to hide the flicker of admiration.

 

Vox practically radiated smug delight.

 

“Right?” he said, almost preening. “Cost me a fortune. Logistics, engineering, the whole nine yards. But worth every soul. This - ” He extended an arm, clawed fingers splayed proudly toward the structure. “ - is my kingdom.”

 

“Bold words,” Alastor remarked, glancing sidelong at him. “Especially after Lucifer’s little… review of the Overlords.”

 

Vox’s projector-mouth curled into a sharp smirk. “Are they?”

 

There was a shift in him - subtle, but unmistakable. His shoulders straightened. His body language changed. Gone was the slightly awkward, overeager Alpha Alastor had first danced with. Here, in his territory, Vox was… something else. Commanding. Self-assured. Confident in a way that bordered on audacity.

 

Alastor studied him anew, a slow curl of genuine interest coiling in his chest.

 

❧

 

Inside the skyscraper, imps swarmed like efficient little insects. Two scooped up Alastor’s luggage without hesitation. Vox kept him close, escorting him through the glittering glass entrance as though he were something valuable - something to be shown off.

 

Eyes turned. Conversations faltered. Sinners bustling through the lobby paused to gawk at the Omega draped elegantly against their Overlord’s side. A handful uttered polite greetings. Others stared. All took note.

 

Alastor met their gazes one by one, allowing his lips to peel back just enough to reveal a sliver of sharp teeth in greeting. Vox’s chest puffed subtly at the display - pride swelling and ego inflated. He looked, for a moment, very much like Adam had when the Fallen Angel paraded him before the masses.

 

His existence, ultimately, has been watered down to a living, breathing ornament on a powerful man’s arm.

 

What a lovely accessory he makes me, Alastor mused, dryly. 

 

They navigated a corridor lined with screens - some projecting news reels, others broadcasting snippets of Hell’s latest scandals. Sinners with headsets rushed past, barking orders, flipping switchboards and juggling equipment. The building hummed with purpose, alive with ambition and noise.

 

It was cleaner here. Sleeker. Every corner whispered money and control.

 

“This is where we handle the big stuff,” Vox said as they stepped into an elevator of mirror-polished chrome. “Broadcasts. Radio. Print distribution. I’ve got half the Pride Ring relying on us for information.”

 

At the word “radio,” Alastor’s ear twitched - a small, involuntary motion - but one the Alpha immediately noticed. Vox’s projected grin brightened in boyish delight in reaction. 

 

“Oh! Yeah. I didn’t tell you?” he said, puffing up a bit. “We’ve been restoring some of the old frequencies. Classic stuff. You’d be amazed what still works.”

 

Alastor’s fingers curled around Vox’s arm, the motion delicate yet unmistakably possessive. His eyes gleamed with sudden, sharp interest. 

 

“Really now?” he murmured, his tone faintly reverent.

 

“Of course!” Vox beamed. “We’ve still got some of the original equipment locked up downstairs. Felt like a waste to just toss it. Once you’re settled, I’ll give you the full tour. The works. You’ll love it.”

 

The Omega wanted to demand they go now. To see it. Touch it. Hear it hum. That lingering hunger from the life he once lived flickered in his chest. 

 

But he swallowed that impulse whole. He was here as Vox’s guest, after all. And he’d be expected to follow the Alpha’s lead and firm guidance. 

 

So instead of voicing his desire, Alastor merely nodded, tightening his hold just enough for Vox to misinterpret it as affection rather than restraint.

 

They reached the elevator, the crowd parting without needing direction. Sinners skittered back instinctively, unwilling to stand too close to an Overlord and the individual within his company. 

 

“The penthouse view is insane,” Vox carried on, excitement bubbling from him. “Bright city lights, clean skyline - well, mostly clean - top floor amenities. You’re gonna love it, Alastor. This place’ll spoil you rotten.”

 

The doors slid shut with a soft hiss and the elevator began its smooth ascent.

 

❧

 

When they stepped out into the penthouse, Alastor was drowned in Vox’s scent at once - thick, assertive and clinging to every surface within the confined space. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it was overwhelming. 

 

The apartment itself was beautiful. A far cry from the cramped, modest cottage Alastor occupied in Rosie’s domain. Crimson-hued lights cast a warm glow across sleek furniture and polished floors. Hellish artwork adorned the walls - pop art blended with infernal futurism.

 

It was, unmistakably, the home of a man who expected to be admired.

 

Imps followed at a respectful distance, depositing Alastor’s bag precisely where Vox directed. They disappeared without needing acknowledgment - the well-oiled machinery of an Alpha in his element. Vox wasn’t awkward here, nor shy, nor eager to please.

 

He was confident. Commanding. Boisterous in a way that made Alastor reevaluate everything he’d assumed.

 

Ah. Here he is, Alastor mused, intrigued. The man beneath the softness.

 

They toured the space together, Vox gesturing proudly at the high ceilings and glass walls overlooking the chaotic sprawl of the Pride Ring. Each comment carried an undercurrent of ownership. Threads of implication woven between the lines.

 

“You know,” Vox said casually as he guided him down a short hallway, “this place… it’s meant to last. You’re not just visiting some bachelor pad. I designed it with long-term stuff in mind.”

 

His hand slid to Alastor’s shoulder - light, almost reverent, but with a firmness that spoke of expectation.

 

They reached the branching hallway. Three doors. Vox opened the first proudly.

 

“My office,” he announced. “No surprise there.”

 

Of course.

 

But then he opened the second.

And the third.

 

Both were empty. Waiting for a purpose. A reason to be filled. 

 

Alastor’s breath hitched - almost imperceptibly - before he smothered the reaction beneath practiced gentility.

 

Vox watched him with a soft, hopeful smile that made the implications that much more suffocating.

 

“I wanted the extra space,” he explained. “You know. For the future.”

 

For - 

 

children. 

 

A picturesque fantasy in Vox’s naïve, archaic mind. And a gilded cage in Alastor’s.

 

Revolting.

 

His stomach twisted - hot, oily disgust climbing his spine - but externally he remained the perfect Omega. Tail still. Ears poised. Expression softened around the edges in a mimicry of bashfulness.

 

“You’ve thought of everything,” he said, sweetly.

 

Vox’s smile widened, earnest as a boy showing off a handcrafted gift.

 

“I try,” he admitted. “I really do think you’ll like it here, Alastor. I… I want you to. More than anything.”

 

The Omega’s face didn’t shift.

 

But inside?

 

He sneered.

 

He’d waited decades under Rosie’s roof - enduring the monotony, the confinement and the quiet reminders of his station. And now he found himself staring down another prison that was polished and luxurious and built expressly for him. Expecting him to nest, to settle and to become the obedient ornament to Vox’s empire. 

 

Alastor was fated to be carefully transferred from one prison to another. 

 

He could feel his pulse tick in his throat - heat, irritation and hunger for something he dearly missed: agency.

 

Still he smiled.

 

“It’s wonderful, Vincent,” he said with a slight dip of his head. “Truly. Perhaps…” he lifted a hand, lightly pinching at the material of the man’s sleeve, “…I should unpack. Freshen up. And then we can have that little tour you promised.”

 

Vox brightened immediately.

“Yeah! Absolutely. Take your time.”

 

❧

 

The tour was efficient without feeling rushed. Vox knew exactly what to highlight, where to linger and when to observe Alastor’s reactions. They eventually reached a room set deeper within the building: the broadcasting hub, its walls lined with restored consoles, refurbished receivers, tidy spools of cable and several desks overflowing with labeled tapes and reels. It was a space humming with possibility, alive with soft electrical undertones. The pride in Vox’s screen was unmistakable as he held the door open.

 

Alastor drifted in as though drawn by a tether. His gaze skimmed the room, lingering on the refurbished equipment, the familiar glow of indicator lights and the polished desk. His eyes softened in a manner rare for him - a distant, strangely mournful gleam overtaking the usual playful sharpness.

 

“I do miss this,” he murmured, not quite to Vox.

 

He stepped toward the central desk, fingertips brushing across the clutter-free surface as though reacquainting himself with an old lover. A microphone rested on its stand - sleek, restored, gleaming faintly beneath the overhead lamps. Alastor lifted his hand and let his claws graze the mesh grille with feather-light reverence. A memory flickered across his features, subtle but unmistakable.

 

Being a radio host had been his one scrap of genuine freedom. His booth had been a sanctuary - walls padded, light dimmed and the hum of electricity a constant companion. Within that soundproof box, he’d controlled the narrative. He spoke and the world listened. No one could see his face or the thoughts lurking behind it. Only the voice mattered. Only the performance.

 

Here in Hell, the booth was gone. The anonymity gone. The power structure is ever-present and cloying. It felt as though some essential part of him had been shelved, left to rot.

 

There had to be a way to reclaim it properly . Some path back to the control he once wielded so effortlessly. But reclaiming that would require patience - a vantage point from which to survey Hell’s shifting landscape with clarity.

 

He barely noticed Vox approaching until the Alpha’s scent reached him, followed by the faintest weight of a hand settling on his shoulder - careful, almost hesitant, as though Vox feared startling him. Alastor resisted the urge to stiffen more visibly, though his ear twitched.

 

“You know…” Vox ventured, voice threading between hopeful and cautious, “we could always use another voice on the station. Someone with presence. Once you’re… properly settled in, maybe we could talk about options.”

 

Alastor turned his head just enough to meet Vox’s gaze. The Omega’s eyes began to shine - not with softness, but calculation. He allowed only the smallest curl of a smile, the kind that invited assumptions.

 

There it was.
 

Finally.

 

The door he had been waiting - quietly - for Vox to open.

 

He let the moment breathe, savoring the tension of it and letting Vox steep in the thrill of thinking he’d said something clever.

 

“Is that so?” Alastor asked, quietly. 

 

Vox’s projected face brightened immediately. “Yeah - really. I mean it.”

 

They shared a grin.

 

❧

 

Alastor spent the late afternoon acquainting himself with the space Vox clearly expected him to occupy. The kitchen - bright and immaculately polished - was disappointingly barren once he began opening cupboards. A few serviceable seasonings. Very little in the way of aromatic herbs. The meat selection was adequate but uninspired and the vegetables were the sort that barely warranted the name. It was all rather… bland.

 

Typical of an Alpha who expected the Omega to compensate for such shortcomings.

 

Still, Alastor made do. He always did.

 

Vox seemed almost giddy when the Omega, after a quiet inspection, began drafting a shopping list at the Alpha’s insistence. A long list. A demanding list. Fresh herbs, proper spices, a variety of meats and cuts, staples that could transform a meal into something of substance. Vox hovered nearby, watching over his shoulder with a kind of earnest fascination, nodding along as though he understood half of what Alastor was writing. Eventually the list was surrendered to an imp with a brisk wave of Vox’s hand.

 

Their dinner that evening was simple due to the limited ingredients - almost insultingly simple from Alastor’s perspective - but Vox ate with such open delight that one would swear the Omega had hand-crafted a feast. Alastor, meanwhile, picked through the plate with polite efficiency. Bland or not, the meal was serviceable. And more importantly, it bought him time to think.

 

Vox talked. And talked. And talked. A steady stream of cheerful commentary about work, about plans for their “stay,” about improvements he intended to make to the penthouse and how he hoped Alastor would feel “at home.” It was the chattering of a man buoyed by anticipation, barely able to contain himself.

 

Alastor found it almost charming and deeply telling. Vox was in a good mood for one reason only.

 

Tonight marked their first night sharing a bed.

 

Custom dictated they share a space, share warmth and share scent. It was expected. Traditional. Practically ritualistic. And no doubt Vox had constructed a hundred fantasies around the moment.

 

Alastor sipped his wine, letting the sweet, saccharine liquid burn down his throat. It was far too sugary for his tastes - a fair number of hellish vineyards had no subtlety - but it gifted him a pleasant buzz. Just enough to soften his limbs without dulling the sharpness of his mind.

 

What would Vox expect of him?

 

He caught the Alpha glancing at him over the table, the projected mouth stretching into a grin that bordered on hopeful. Eager. He was practically vibrating with the attempt to appear restrained.

 

Alastor tilted the wineglass back, appearing casual as he finished the last swallow. Then, deliberately, he tipped the glass just a fraction too far. A thin line of wine slid down the corner of his mouth and along the edge of his chin.

 

Vox’s eyes snapped to it immediately - reflexive with a hint of hunger. 

 

Alastor let his tongue flick out - long, red and pointed - to retrieve the liquid in a smooth swipe. A simple motion, but it was deliberate in a way only another predator would recognize. A subtle display. A lure.

 

And Vox’s projector-screen dimmed briefly with static, a visible tremor overtaking the edges of his image. His claws tightened subtly around his glass.

 

Alastor smiled, slow and knowing, letting the moment stretch just long enough for the Alpha to feel it in his bones.

 

❧

 

The ceiling of the master bedroom was surprisingly plain - a soft, subdued shade of blue that seemed almost fragile in contrast to the sleek luxury of Vox’s penthouse. At its center, an ornate ceiling fan turned in slow, unhurried circles, its dim light casting languid shapes that slid across walls and floor as if reluctant to settle anywhere for long. Alastor watched those shifting shadows with a muted sort of fascination, his smile fixed in its usual sharp curve while his half-lidded eyes drifted somewhere far beyond the present moment.

 

Dissociation came to him as naturally as breathing. In life it had been a skill he honed out of necessity and in death it served him just as faithfully. When he wished to untether from a situation, he needed only to seize upon something small - some harmless detail that carried no weight of expectation. 

 

Tonight it was the gentle rotation of the fan, the soft flicker of the light; the repetitive movement that asked nothing of him and expected even less. He let his attention coil around that stillness, drawing comfort from its predictability.

 

The room was warm - perhaps too warm for comfort, though the thought drifted by without anchoring itself. A faint perfume clung to the bedsheets, some expensive scent chosen for its softness, meant to evoke intimacy or ease. Alastor drew in a slow breath, letting the fragrance settle around him as he shifted his head just enough to inhale it again. 

 

The sheets were plush, layered with careful precision, each fold perfectly arranged. His claws curled into the fabric, not from any emotion but out of instinctive need to ground himself through texture rather than the moment unfolding around him.

 

He let his thoughts slip where they wished. The ceiling. The faint hum of the city far below. The quiet whir of the fan. The give of the mattress beneath him - firm, high-quality and designed with indulgence in mind. 

 

All of it blurred together, a tapestry of sensations that kept him tethered even as his mind floated just beyond reach. The warmth of the room pressed in on him in waves, though he accepted it without reaction, focusing instead on the smoothness of the sheets beneath his palms, their scent, their luxurious weave.

 

A breath left him - the kind of exhale that could pass for pleasure in dim light yet carried none of its truth. His lashes lowered and he allowed his mind to drift just a little farther, balancing on the thin edge between presence and distance. The sheets, at least, were comforting. A small mercy. A simple, solid thing he could return to again and again.

 

And so he fixated on them - their weight and their warmth  - as he let the rest of the world blur into something indistinct and far away.

 

Only when a warm breath ghosted over the sensitive skin of his inner thigh did he blink and return - from far, far away.

 

Vox’s face hovered between his legs, luminescent eyes soft with concern. His tongue, blue and faintly glowing, retracted from the slick heat between Alastor’s thighs.

 

“You alright, Alastor?” Vox asked gently, voice low and uncertain. He kept Alastor open with careful hands, thumbs spreading him with a tenderness bordering on reverent. “You… drifted a little.”

 

Alastor exhaled slowly, claws sliding back through the mess of his mane. “I’m fine, Vincent,” he murmured, tone airy. His smile held. It always held.

 

But Vox wasn’t convinced. His hand soothed the Omega’s thigh, a slow, comforting stroke meant to ground him.

 

“You seem out of it,” he said, voice softened with concern.

 

A soft, controlled chuckle left Alastor’s lips. “I believe I drank a touch too much. My apologies.”

 

Vox hummed in concern. “Do you want to stop? Are you feeling sick? Dizzy? You can tell me.”

 

There it was - that softness. 

 

Alastor regarded him for a moment, then tipped his head, offering a smile that was far too sharp to be gentle.

 

“I’m fine,” he repeated. “It feels nice enough.”

 

Vox’s projected brows knit, but the reassurance soothed him. He shifted forward on the bed, kneeling, hands braced on either side of Alastor’s hips. He looked down at the Omega as though memorizing him, caught between worry and desire.

 

“You sure?” Vox pressed.

 

Alastor’s ears twitched, a hint of amusement threading through his voice. “Are you?”

 

Vox hesitated, then crawled up the length of him, bodies brushing, heat meeting heat. Alastor forced himself to lean subtly into the touch, letting Vox cup his face with one hand. The Alpha studied him closely, as if trying to peel away the layers of placid calm.

 

“I’d rather have you present,” Vox murmured. “With me. Not… drifting somewhere I can’t follow.”

 

A dangerous sentiment. But earnest.

Alastor’s smile softened - the subtle movement entirely intentional. “Is that so?”

 

“Mmh.” Vox nodded, lowering himself, pressing his weight against Alastor’s body. “I like knowing you’re here. With me.”

 

Such a sweet, naive thing.

 

Before Alastor could answer, Vox dipped down and their mouths met. The kiss was warm, full and almost clumsy in its eagerness. Vox kissed like someone starved for affection. 

 

Alastor did not pull back.

 

He kissed him in return, deliberately slow, letting Vox taste warmth and willingness. Allowing the man to believe that the Omega beneath him was fully, intimately present.

 

Alastor’s gaze drifted upward again as the man’s mouth found his neck and suckled gently, catching the slow rotations of the ceiling fan - counting them, measuring them, slipping once more into the quiet place behind his own eyes.

Chapter 11: 11

There were countless products on the market designed to manage an Omega’s cycle - far more than he’d ever had access to in life. Back then, pads and tampons were only just breaking into widespread use, still considered a novelty by some, a scandal by others. Before that, it had been nothing but carefully folded cloth, washed by hand, hung in secrecy and tucked discreetly away. He remembered his own supply: stacks of clean rags, bleached and dried in the dense heat of Louisiana air, all arranged in meticulous rows within the cabinets of his hovel. Everything in its place, ready for use the moment the first telltale cramp hit.

 

He’d always prepared early. Always.

 

But Hell, with its mockery of modernization, offered far more variety than he ever remembered. Cups, pads, tampons in half a dozen configurations; overflow garments; sleek little containers designed to seal scent and blood. It all struck him as oddly civilized for a realm ruled by violence and instinct. And Vox - ever eager  - had spared no expense in ensuring Alastor’s comfort. All of it sat neatly arranged in their shared bathroom, stacked and sorted with a precision that betrayed how seriously the man approached his role.

 

The generosity was mildly embarrassing, though he hid it well. 

 

The bathroom held more than just hygienic necessities. Vox had stocked it with a spread of personal care items - moisturizers intended for sensitive skin, shampoos rich enough to coax shine into fur, oils for his mane, polish for his hooves, files, brushes and combs. A small, curated shrine to Omega maintenance. All meant for him. All neatly displayed for his use until he cultivated preferences of his own.

 

When the Alpha left to handle duties at the studio, Alastor took the opportunity to explore the expanse of the penthouse on his own. He took his time. He inspected every corner with a practiced delicacy. It was less a stroll and more a quiet reconnaissance. And as he slipped into the closet, he found it arranged as though waiting for the next phase of their life together - their life, as Vox seemed eager to imagine it.

 

Clothes in his size filled an entire section. Omega-appropriate shirts and trousers in vibrant tones; sharply tailored suits soft enough to accentuate his frame; dresses and skirts selected with an eye for elegance rather than scandal. Every hem adjusted for his body. Every waist nipped for shape. And tucked discreetly deeper within, he found finer things - fragile lace, delicate garters, silky pieces cut for softness and presentation. Even undergarments had been tailored carefully for his personal use, a neat little opening stitched into the back to accommodate his tail.

 

He stared at them far longer than he should have.

 

And deeper still, he found a wooden drawer nearly invisible unless one knew to search. Inside were toys - various shapes and designs, nothing garish, everything expensive and finely made. Things Vox had likely chosen with the assumption that once the Omega was settled, once he trusted him and he softened into that role - they would be used.

 

Unsurprising, he supposed. 

 

Alastor felt no anger, only the faint curl of a smile. A familiar, cold amusement warmed his chest. He took nothing from its place except to inspect it, cataloguing each piece with clinical interest, noting what Vox imagined he might enjoy, what the Alpha assumed he’d accept and what Vox pictured in that little future he was building so earnestly.

 

He made certain to leave everything exactly as he found it. Every drawer slid back into place with the same pressure; every hem draped precisely as before; every hanger faced the same direction. Vox needn’t know he’d been curious. He needn’t suspect how thorough Alastor’s examination truly was.

 

Only the items meant to be disturbed - the ones Vox expected him to touch - were moved. The rest he returned with surgical precision.

 

❧

 

The familiar rush came as a sudden, molten warmth - the kind that pulled the breath from his lungs before his mind even caught up. A wet bloom between his thighs. An instinctual jolt in his gut. 

 

The scent of iron followed immediately.

 

Alastor snapped awake like a trap springing shut, his body twisting upright in a sharp jerk. Vox’s arm was draped securely around his waist, the  Alpha pressed behind him, still breathing slow and deep in sleep. They’d shared only the mildest intimacy before bed - soft touches, gentle kisses, nothing overtly taxing - but now all of that meant nothing. His body had turned inward, feral and bristling, screaming at him to move.

 

He did.

 

Without hesitation or apology, he tore himself free of the Alpha’s hold. Vox mumbled incoherently, disturbed by the sudden motion, but Alastor didn’t look back. His focus was singular as he slid off the bed. A small spotting of blood marked the sheets, then a drop on the floor, then another - tiny, damning red footprints that betrayed everything.

 

He made for the bathroom with a speed bordering on panic and slammed the door hard enough to rattle the hinges.

 

The crack of wood on metal echoed through the penthouse.

 

He fumbled for a warm rag, pressing it between his thighs as he hissed under his breath. The crimson was thin for now, still in its beginning stages, but the scent - his scent - was thickening rapidly, curling into the air and clinging to his skin. He knew it would only grow stronger. A biological siren song he’d spent his entire living life dampening at all costs.

 

And now here he was. In another’s territory. In an Alpha’s bed, of all things. 

 

He shoved a tampon into place with shaking hands - clumsy, graceless and so utterly unlike him. When he finished, he remained seated on the closed toilet lid, arms wrapped tight around himself, trying to compress his body into something small. 

 

He had never been around anyone aside from Niffty during this part of his cycle beyond when he was young. Not in life. Not in death. Not once.

 

He always ran. Always hid.

Isolation had been survival.

 

But now - 

 

Now he was exposed.

 

Thirty minutes crawled past, each second scraping nerves raw. His mind churned, not quite thoughts but pulses of instinct: hide hide hide get away move move move.

 

He heard movement outside the door. A soft shifting of weight.

Then footsteps pacing.

 

Another thirty minutes.

 

Then a hesitant knock.

 

“Alastor?”

 

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His throat locked up, a pathetic tremor shaking through him as distress seeped into the air like oil into water. He loathed how his scent betrayed him - how it curdled, sour with fear, threaded with something fragile and panicked.

 

“Are you alright?” Vox tried again, voice gentle. 

 

A stupid question.

 

No, he wanted to snarl. No, of course I’m not alright, you blithering imbecile - what do you think is happening?

 

His silence must not have conveyed the message well enough, because the next sound was the soft click of the handle turning. The door eased inward.

 

And then Vox stepped inside.

 

Concern all over his face. Eyes wide. Shoulders lowered to make him appear small. Hands held out slightly as though approaching a frightened animal. He had the common decency to cover his lower half with striped briefs, at least. “Hey, hey… you don’t have to hide. Just tell me if - ”

 

He didn’t finish.

 

Because Alastor was already moving.

 

The moment that Alpha scent crossed the threshold, instinct surged hot and vicious through him. His body reacted before anything else. His lips pulled further back from his teeth in a snarl, his claws extended as he lunged. An outraged roar ripping from his throat so violently it scraped his lungs raw.

 

Vox only had time to flinch.

 

Then Alastor was on him.

 

❧

 

Alastor was left alone.

 

Not abandoned - but quarantined and contained. The Alpha had made preparations, of course. Rosie would’ve reminded him that the first stage of an Omega’s cycle was the most volatile: all teeth, all instinct and all the raw hostility of something cornered in its own skin. And Alastor had proven the stereotype with vicious enthusiasm. His smile twisting into something macabre, lips peeled back to expose rows of sharp teeth as he snapped and snarled like a creature half-feral, eyes glassy with panic and fury.

 

They’d fought.

 

Not in any formal sense. Not in any way that would satisfy either of them. It was a chaotic tangle of limbs - the crackle of Vox’s screen as a claw raked across it, the stinging scent of breaking circuitry, the metallic tang of Alpha blood when Alastor managed to catch skin. Vox’s exclamation was somewhere between shock and frustration, but he didn’t strike. He didn’t roar. He didn’t assert dominance the way his sex often did.

 

Instead, he did the one thing Alastor hated most.

 

He overpowered him.

 

Not cruelly. Not aggressively. Just effectively - strong arms wrapping around him, forcing his wrists down, pinning him to the ground with a steadiness that brooked no argument. It was a humiliating reminder of the biological gulf between them. Every furious twist, every frantic attempt to wrench free, every desperate dig of claws - all of it was answered with unyielding strength.

 

Salt in the wound. Fuel to a fire that had nowhere to burn.

 

Eventually the fury sputtered out. Not because Vox had soothed him - but because exhaustion claimed Alastor’s muscles and his instinct recoiled from the heedy scent of Alpha so close to his skin. Vox had dragged himself away, breathing hard, screen flickering from claw damage and wordlessly sealed the bedroom behind him after forcibly depositing the panting Alastor upon the bed. 

 

For the next several days, the penthouse remained a cage.

 

He stalked it with the restless pacing of an animal denied escape. The heavy lockdown mechanisms Vox engaged sealed every door, the thick metallic thuds echoing like the closing of a tomb. A necessary measure, Vox insisted - through the door - because Omegas were prone to bolting during the hostile stage, consumed by a biological terror that demanded distance from anything with fangs and a claim to strength.

 

He bled. Cleaned himself. Bled again. The flow was an ever-present weight - intrusive and humiliating. The reek of menstruation remained steadfast. 

 

The scent clung to him no matter how he scrubbed.

 

He ate almost nothing. The thought of food was repulsive. His body was too busy aching – deep, bone-deep aches that settled into his hips, his abdomen and his spine. A hormonal vibration that made his skin feel too thin, too porous and all-too aware of itself.

 

And worst of all: he had nothing to distract himself with.

 

Just… silence. And the stale, suffocating knowledge that he was trapped inside an Alpha’s territory with no witness and no exit.

 

He curled on the couch, or the bed, or the cool bathroom floor - wherever the ache guided him - and stared at the walls until they blurred. Misery seeped into him like cold water through fabric. Every hour spent alone festered into raw irritation and a quieter, more poisonous feeling beneath it.

 

Longing.

 

He hated it.

He wanted Niffty.

 

She would’ve handled him. Known how to touch him without provoking a snarl. Known when to coax and when to simply sit nearby until he let his head drop onto her lap. She would’ve made broth. Would’ve tutted over him in that rapid, chirring voice of hers. Would’ve cleaned around him without drawing attention to his discomfort. She would’ve anchored him.

Instead, he bristled and bled and stewed alone - an Omega in the throes of a cycle. 

 

❧

 

The bleeding subsided slowly, almost reluctantly, as though his body mourned the loss of that first brutal purge. What replaced it was not relief, not truly, but a different kind of discomfort. It was a low, permeating heat that settled beneath the surface of his skin like embers waking from slumber. The sharp tension that had locked his muscles for days finally began to unravel. His limbs trembled with the aftershocks of exhaustion, his joints aching from strain he hadn’t been aware he was holding until the hostility drained from him.

 

The iron tang faded from the air. In its place rose a warmer, sweeter scent - something spice-laden and intimate, subtle yet unmistakably Omega. His body announced the shift into the receptive stage. The dangerous stage where something within him signaled his readiness. 

 

And he no longer recoiled from Vox’s scent.

 

The bed he had refused, snarling and arching away from it as though it were a trap, suddenly became a comfort. He pressed his cheek into the pillow, inhaling deeply and letting the Alpha’s scent sink into him. It soothed something frayed and raw inside him, quieting the leftover violence that had been simmering behind his ribs. The mattress was soft, the blankets warm and he burrowed into them with surprising eagerness - curling himself into the center of the nest he’d unknowingly begun to build.

 

Heat pooled beneath his skin. Not unbearable. Just… persuasive. A haze fogged the edges of his thoughts, coaxing him toward stillness. Toward softness. He drifted in and out of sleep, lulled by memory and phantom touches that didn’t exist - his maman’s voice weaving through the fog like a lullaby, her gentle hum soothing him, her arms warm and solid around a much younger version of himself. He longed for her in a way he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in decades. He missed her fiercely.

 

“Alastor?”

 

A hand touched his shoulder.

 

The Omega stirred, slow and drowsy, blinking open heavy eyes. The bright glow of Vox’s freshly repaired screen greeted him. Brand new. Polished. No hint of the damage Alastor had inflicted in his earlier frenzy. Vox must have left immediately to replace it the moment the Omega had calmed enough to be safely left alone.

 

The Alpha’s scent hit him next - cool static layered over warm citrus and that faint, telltale thread of want. It didn’t grate anymore. It wrapped around him, coaxing him closer.

 

Vox’s fingers threaded gently through his mane, brushing it back from his face in slow, soothing strokes. The gesture was reverent in a way that surprised him. Tenderness wasn’t something he expected from an Alpha. Not without strings. Yet Vox’s expression felt oddly genuine.

 

“You doing alright, beautiful?” Vox asked, voice pitched low. As though any wrong inflection might send Alastor spiraling again.

 

Alastor managed a quiet nod.

 

Something eased in Vox’s posture - his shoulders lowering, the tension around his artificial jaw relaxing. His thumb stroked lightly across Alastor’s cheek, warm and hesitant.

 

“Do you want me to stay?”

 

The question hovered in the quiet bedroom, weighted with more than just words. It was permission wrapped in restraint, something an Alpha rarely offered freely. Even through the haze, Alastor’s instincts responded - his body tugging toward warmth. He didn’t like the implication, didn’t like the vulnerability threaded into his reaction, but the heat smoothing through his limbs didn’t leave room for pride.

 

He paused… then gave another small, deliberate nod.

 

Vox’s exhale was near-silent, but the relief was palpable - almost boyish in its sincerity. He eased closer, careful not to crowd him, slipping onto the edge of the mattress with slow movements, as though approaching a skittish animal.

 

“Alright,” he murmured, voice soft enough that Alastor’s chest tightened in a way he refused to name.

 

❧

 

Vox stayed close - closer than he ever had - moving with the single-minded focus of an Alpha who had waited patiently for this heat. Every inch of Alastor seemed to call to him now. He couldn’t keep his hands still; they roamed with deliberate curiosity, tracing where fur gave way to skin, where the elegant slope of the deer’s waist dipped beneath his palms and where the soft weight of his rear fit perfectly into his grip as if shaped for him alone.

 

The Omega didn’t shy from his touch. Quite the opposite - Alastor melted into each sweeping caress, body loose and warm, breath soft and receptive. Vox had dreamed of this. Fantasized. And now that he had him pliant in his arms, the Alpha barely knew where to put his attention first.

 

He tasted him freely. Where skin was hottest. Where scent pooled thickest. He licked down the column of Alastor’s throat, greedily breathing him in, the Omega’s heat-sweet scent rolling off him in waves that made every inch of Vox’s body thrum with want. The deer’s thighs parted without hesitation whenever Vox urged them wider and each time the Omega’s breath hitched, the Alpha groaned in answer - low, pleased, thoroughly undone by the sound.

 

He’d resisted before. He’d kept his distance. Waited for permission he was terrified to ask for.

 

Now?

 

Now there was no hesitation.

Alastor opened for him - eager and loose - and Vox indulged him with the hunger of someone who’d been holding back far too long.

 

He worked the Omega open with his mouth, with his hands, with the slow, deliberate grind of his body against the deer’s trembling thigh. Alastor’s cunt was slick from the heat, soft enough that Vox hardly needed to coax him, yet he did - slow, savoring every small reaction. Every shiver. Every breathless tug of claws against his shoulders.

 

And the way Alastor looked at him - hazed, pupils blown wide and lips parted just so - made Vox’s cock throb almost painfully.

 

“Beautiful,” Vox murmured against his skin, voice gone husky. “You’re driving me insane, baby.”

 

Alastor’s red claws tightened on him, guiding and encouraging. His voice was a soft, needy croon - so unlike his usual razor-sharp tone.

 

Vox’s mind went hazy at the sound.

 

He pushed himself up over the Omega, caging him in without fully pinning him. His weight pressed against Alastor’s body, warm and solid and the Omega arched into him with a helpless, heat-drunk whine that shot straight through Vox’s restraint.

 

His cock dragged against the slick heat of Alastor’s cunt and the Omega’s breath stuttered - his eyes fluttering, thighs trembling.

 

Vox nearly lost control.

 

He braced a hand beside Alastor’s head, panting softly, his voice breaking on a whisper:

 

“Tell me you want this.”

 

Red eyes, unfocused but hungry, lifted to meet his.
 

A clawed hand cupped Vox’s face with surprising tenderness.

 

“Vincent…”

 

A breath.

“I want you.”

 

That was all it took. And Vox’s restraint ruptured like a snapped cable.

 

 He surged forward, pressing their mouths together in a kiss that was far messier and far more desperate than before. Alastor met him with equal heat, pulling him closer and urging him deeper. His body instinctively opened to the Alpha’s weight, his heat-softened cunt throbbing with need beneath the press of Vox’s hips.

 

The world narrowed to panting breath, slick heat and the instinctive grind of bodies locked together.

 

Vox’s voice dropped to a reverent, trembling whisper against the Omega’s lips:

 

“Let me take care of you.”

 

And Alastor just nodded and tugged him closer.

 

The rest dissolved into breath and heat and the instinctive rhythm of bodies seeking each other through the haze of estrus, until neither of them could think of anything else at all.

❧

 

Alastor returned to Cannibal Town in uncharacteristic silence, the kind of silence that felt constructed, as though each breath and each blink were chosen with careful deliberation. Vox’s hand rested over his own for the entire duration of the drive. Possessive in a way the Alpha didn’t understand was possessive.

 

The contact should have been harmless. Should have been tolerable. But to Alastor, whose nerves had only just begun to settle into themselves again, it felt like a brand. Like a stamp of ownership pressed against his skin, echoing through the tender places heat had softened.

 

He kept still.

 

He forced his eyes to meet Vox’s openly adoring gaze once or twice - only long enough to maintain the illusion of reciprocation - before he turned back to the window. Watching the streets roll past in their grimy procession. Watching the world beyond the glass blur into streaks that matched the frantic pace of his thoughts.

 

Vox rambled softly beside him, eager and affectionate, recounting plans for their next evening together. For another shared dinner or perhaps another night spent in the penthouse. His voice trembled with happiness when he spoke about Alastor’s impending return. The words dripped with the kind of devotion Omegas were expected to crave.

 

Alastor’s stomach churned.

 

It rolled with an anxiety that seemed to claw up from the base of his spine. A nauseating cocktail of instinctual fear and carefully suppressed fury. His throat tightened. The remnants of his cooking threatened to surge up in a useless revolt.

 

He swallowed it back.

 

The kiss they shared at the door was gentle, tender and filled with the promise of further intimacy. Vox cupped his jaw with such reverence, as though the Omega were porcelain. The man’s screen brightened, saturated with affection. His voice, low and soft, murmured something about missing him already.

 

A shiver of dread crawled up Alastor’s spine, cold and unwelcome.

 

Vox was going to ask for his hand.

Soon.

The certainty of it pressed against Alastor’s ribs like a fist.

 

Marriage.

A cage made of affection was still a cage.

 

And Alastor couldn’t - wouldn’t - be trapped in that way. 

 

He’d endured days of vulnerability. Days where his body had overruled his mind. A week where Vox had seen him soft and yielding. And there was now a sickening awareness blooming in the Alpha’s expression - some smug, quiet certainty that the Omega would remain soft for him.

 

He’d tasted that power.

And Alastor knew Vox would want - or demand -  more.

 

The limousine pulled away, taking the Alpha with it. 

The door to his home creaked open.

 

Niffty stood waiting for him - her expression uncharacteristically tight, her hands clasped before her apron. Her little eyes glimmered with worry the moment she saw him. Alastor knew he looked wrong. Felt wrong. His smile didn’t reach his eyes. His posture was stiff, not poised. He walked like someone whose balance had been disturbed.

 

“Alastor?” she whispered, already stepping toward him. “Are you…? Oh dear…”

 

He didn’t resist when she reached for him. He didn’t brush her off or tease her for fussing. He let her touch him. Let her guide him further inside. Let her close the door behind them with a soft click.

 

He felt hollow.

 

He let her speak softly at him, fussing over his present state, pressing a hand to his cheek in her attempt to detect a fever. He simply blinked back at her - slow, listless, his eyes glazed with contemplation.

 

He followed when she led him toward the bathroom.

 

The bath steamed, filling the room with heat that prickled at his skin. When he sank into it, the water stung beneath his fur - sharp and purifying, like needles piercing through the vestiges of Vox’s scent still clinging to him.

 

Alastor winced.

But he didn’t pull away.

 

He leaned back against the porcelain edge, claws flexing and curling at the sides of the tub. Niffty moved about in gentle, sweeping motions. Her presence was grounding. Familiar. Comforting in a way no Alpha’s could ever be.

 

But his mind -

 

His mind was far from comfort.

 

He stared at the rippling surface of the water, watching steam dance in ghostly spirals. His reflection blurred and fragmented.

 

He thought of Vox’s eyes.

 

He thought of marriage documents.

 

He thought of Rosie’s words:
“You’ll need someone to keep you in your place.”

 

His claws scraped lightly against porcelain.

 

He felt dread pool within his stomach, heavy and black. Because choices were narrowing. Paths were closing and the world was shifting under his freshly polished hooves. 

 

But he would work with what was given. He done so before. 

Chapter 12: 12

Alastor had been returned to solitude as though he were some creature requiring quarantine. An expected custom for Omegas after a cycle, of course, one meant to offer rest and recalibration. But he found no comfort in the stillness of his home. The rooms felt too quiet, his own steps too loud. Even the soft hum of the radio-less silence gnawed at him.

 

Rosie had come by, but only briefly. Her “check-in” felt more like a performance than genuine concern. She stood in his doorway, elegant and composed while offering polite questions that danced around the truth. She didn’t request details but her eyes lingered on him with palpable scrutiny. The woman was searching for something. Some confirmation that he’d been softened and more properly reminded of who he was supposed to be.

 

Or rather, where he belonged.

 

He hated how her gaze lingered on him - the Omega detecting the satisfaction present within those dark eyes. As though the week had done exactly what it was meant to do. As though a shared heat had burned away the sharpness and arrogance, leaving behind something comparatively tame. 

 

A reminder of his station, she’d once said.

 

He smiled for her, of course. He always smiled. But when she left, shutting the door behind her, the smile stayed fixed. A brittle little curl of lips that refused to relax, even as his temples pulsed with pain.

 

His skull throbbed with the ache of suppressed panic, the residual fog of heat and the pressure of looming inevitability. Every thought felt jagged, catching on the ribs of his mind. He moved through the hours like a ghost, trying to ignore the thick knot of dread lodged beneath his sternum.

 

Choices.

Yes - he had some choices.

 

He repeated that to himself as though repetition might make it true.
 

A handful of possibilities flickered in and out of reach, most of them impractical, some of them foolish and all of them suffocating. The sensible options felt useless; the desperate ones were unthinkable.

But remaining still - allowing things to continue unfolding on Vox and Rosie’s terms - felt like a death far worse than any blade Adam could swing.

 

At least there was no formal announcement yet. No celebration planned. No document presented, sealed in red wax, requesting that the Radio Demon take his place as someone’s mate. But Alastor wasn’t naive. The pieces fit too neatly. Vox had fallen deeply, stupidly in love and Rosie had every reason to give permission. To secure an alliance. To tuck him into a place where he could no longer upset the delicate, dangerous balance she’d maintained.

 

He didn’t know how long Rosie would wait before she responded to whatever request Vox had surely made. She could take days. Weeks. Hours.

 

But she would respond.

 

And he would be expected to obey.

 

He sat at his desk because he needed to do something - anything - to quiet the noise in his mind. His hands trembled only once before he forced them still. He pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment. Began writing. Discarded it. Began again. Ink smeared once, twice. He hissed beneath his breath, tore another failed draft and hastily reached for a new page.

 

By the time he finished, his hand ached and the stack of crumpled pages beside him had grown fat. But the final version was perfect. Every curve of ink is carefully measured. Every word chosen with surgical precision. He folded it neatly, sealing the envelope with wax that cooled beneath his fingertip.

 

When he handed it to Niffty, she accepted it with a solemnity that belied her usual frenetic energy. She clutched it to her chest as though it were a fragile thing. As though she recognized that Alastor had tucked something essential - perhaps something dangerous - inside.

 

“Make sure it reaches the right hands,” he murmured.

 

She nodded earnestly.

“I will.”

 

He watched her leave, the diminutive woman disappearing down the street with frantic speed. 

 

Then he returned inside and closed the door.

 

And he waited.

 

The waiting was unbearable.

 

His home felt smaller than ever. The air too warm, the silence too vast. Even his own scent - cleaned and  stripped of Vox’s cloying signature - felt strange to him now. As though it were wearing thin. Like something foreign had grafted itself beneath his skin.

 

He had sent his letter.

 

Now all that remained was the reply.

 

❧

 

Alastor had not squandered the time spent under Vox’s roof. While he played the part required of him his senses remained sharpened to everything the Alpha revealed, intentionally or otherwise. Vox spoke freely, perhaps too freely, as though the simple presence of an appreciative Omega invited confession. The man was, after all, a creature of ambition and ego and eager to be admired by his future mate. That eagerness made him vulnerable. It made him talkative. And Alastor listened.

 

Rosie would never have offered him even a fraction of what Vox laid bare between casual conversation and affectionate touches. Where Rosie guarded information with the tight-fisted paranoia of a long-surviving Beta, Vox dispensed it generously, pleased to share the intricacies of Hell’s political landscape with the Omega who held his hand. Alastor found this disparity nothing short of delicious. He’d endured restraint, humiliation, cycles and confinement - all to pry loose this kind of insight. And if he remained careful, if he maintained the act flawlessly, it might yet prove worth the indignity of playing house in a gilded cage.

 

Still, there was no denying the cost. Every moment spent in Vox’s territory came with an unspoken price - his autonomy traded for proximity. His rights, few as they were, eroded with every concession he made. Hell’s hierarchy demanded that Omegas pay for privilege and they paid with their bodies and their freedom. In his pursuit of information Alastor had waded into a mire thicker than he initially imagined.

 

Power. That was the real currency here. Brute strength, dominance, battle prowess - these carved one’s place into Hell’s bones. It was why Alphas ruled, why their names were plastered across districts, why the news cycles remained fixated on their feuds and why the majority of Overlords existed at the intersection of violence and charisma. They had been favored in life; Hell simply expanded the gulf.

 

An Omega acquiring such power… the notion was almost laughable. And yet Alastor had asked. Casually. Almost sweetly. His head tipped just so as he inquired whether an Omega had ever ascended to the rank of Overlord. Vox’s reaction had been immediate - a flicker of shock, bemusement and barely contained laughter that teetered on insulting. The Alpha had masked it quickly, clearing his throat and offering a polite correction in gentler tones.

 

No. Never. Not once in Hell’s entire history.

 

The reason was simple: their souls were naturally dampened. Muted. Lacking the metaphysical capacity for dominance or mass manipulation. They were powerful in other - comparatively subtle - ways. But Hell did not generously reward this power. Hell rewarded violence. Vox even went so far as to describe the occasional influential Omega who had secured power through strategic partnerships. But none had risen above the inherent limitations of their caste.

 

And after Lilith vanished with Lucifer’s heir?

 

The restrictions clamped down with an iron fist.

 

Omegas became objects of scrutiny. Possessions to be watched, catalogued and claimed before they could run. Every mate-bond was inspected more ruthlessly. Every unclaimed Omega was perceived as a liability, a potential disruption  - or worse, a reminder of the king’s loss. Even now, decades later, the paranoia lingered like a stain on Hell’s collective consciousness.

 

Alastor sifted through all of this new information carefully. Overlords knew far more than the rank-and-file Sinners and he found himself acutely aware of how sheltered he’d been. Not coddled, but effectively shielded by Rosie’s structure; by her stability  and by his own refusal to interact with Hell’s greater mechanics due to the terrible risk involved. He’d been allowed to exist quietly, tucked away in Cannibal Town’s safety.

 

But the moment an Executioner and a King had taken a - hopefully momentary - interest in him, his protection became a farce. When he stepped into the ballroom and flaunted himself, he’d been placed on a precipice with the wind at his back.

 

He had no true power.
 

No legitimate avenue toward acquiring it.
 

No path beyond those dictated to Omegas before him.

Which left him with two choices:

Marry into power and live in the shadow of a man or woman, gaining influence only through proximity…

Or

find some impossible path to strength on his own, one that defied history.

 

The latter was, by every measurable standard, a fantasy. Vox had been too polite to say the word impossible, but the meaning was laid bare in his softened, pitying expression. Alastor was not built for war. His soul was not forged for brutality. His strengths lay elsewhere - charm, manipulation, cleverness, talent, charisma. Useful, yes. But insufficient to carve out territory in a land ruled by violence.

 

It was an old story, truly. One recited in life as often as in death. Omegas survived through marriage, grafting their names onto the legacies of powerful men, becoming mere footnotes in history books that were scarcely worthy of note. His kind inspired poems, birthed heirs and stabilized households. Their faces appeared beside their mates’ portraits, briefly, before fading into obscurity.

 

The Alphas became legends.

The Omegas became margins.

 

And now they wanted him to adopt a similar role.

 

Alastor pressed his fingertips to his temple, as the weight of it settled once more. His mind churned with bitter thoughts, the familiar thrum of discontent rising in his chest.

 

He did not want to be a footnote.

 

He did not want to be anyone’s legacy.

 

He wanted power.

 

And now he knew, with painful clarity, that Hell had no intention of letting him have it.

 

Not unless he found a way to cheat the system.

 

❧

 

To his deep and simmering frustration, there was still no response to his letter. Not immediately - fine, he had expected as much. But as the days trickled by with agonizing slowness, his certainty began to fray. Messages directed to the Morningstar Castle did not follow the polite timelines of civilized correspondence. There was no guarantee of delivery, let alone acknowledgement. He could not know whether the letter was being read, ignored, delayed, archived, dismissed or burned.

 

It had been, by every measure, a desperate maneuver. A direct petition to the King. A quiet plea tucked within formal phrasing, submitted with the smallest, trembling hope that he still lingered somewhere in Lucifer’s vast, unyielding memory - that the king had not already erased him as easily as one forgets a passing fragrance. Perhaps he was already nothing more than a faint recollection, a curious little Omega who had entertained him for a single dance before being handed back to his Beta caretaker.

 

Perhaps he had never mattered at all.

 

He loathed himself for hoping - hated the way it tucked itself into the corners of his chest, subtle yet persistent. Hated the way his stomach lifted whenever a letter slipped under the threshold.

 

Every arrival reignited that fragile, unwanted spark.

 

Every time.

 

And yet, of course - inevitably - it was only Vox.

 

Always Vox. Sealed in that tacky, unmistakable blue.

 

He stared down at the newest envelope in hand, feeling the disappointment twist into something sharp enough to wound. His fingers tightened around the wax seal before he forced himself to open it, smoothing out the letter with a heaviness that felt bone-deep.

 

Romantic drivel.

 

All of it.

 

Fucking all of it -  saccharine sentimentality, aching declarations, promises of future mornings and shared meals and whispered dreams. Vox poured himself onto the page with heart-wrenching earnestness, as though he believed the Omega would swoon simply because he was adored.

 

It exhausted him.

 

It enraged him.

 

It… frightened him.

 

He folded the letter once - twice - thrice, as though compressing its contents might smother the implications inside. Words of love were no better than chains, and these were crafted with care.

 

“Niffty,” he murmured, voice flat in a way that was unusual enough for her to perk up immediately.

 

She was at his side in seconds and when he offered her the letter, her expression twisted into offended disgust. She did not bother asking permission. She merely hissed and tore into the paper like a cheerful little animal defending her nest, shredding the thing into confetti with bared, white teeth. 

 

Alastor watched silently as she scattered pieces across the floor, snarling under her breath as though each scrap represented some grave personal offense. She cleaned the mess as fast as she created it, her agitation sharp and palpable.

 

He found he couldn’t fault her for it.

 

Vox’s words, sentimentally wrapped as they were, felt more suffocating with each passing day. They pressed at him like a pressure building behind glass. 

 

And still… no letter from the King.

 

Not even a whisper.

 

Not even a rumor.

 

Only silence.

 

Only Vox.

 

❧

 

There was a child at his skirt - small fingers tugging insistently, urgently, with the mindless confidence only the very young possessed. The sound barely reached him at first, as if filtered through water.

 

Alastor blinked.

 

The world snapped into clarity.

 

The scent of searing fat filled the kitchen, sweet and greasy. On the stove, crisped strips of bacon curled in the pan beside a mound of soft, steaming eggs. He finished plating the meal with a careful, practiced precision, sliding the serving beside two smaller dishes prepared with delicate, comparatively smaller portions. His hand moved automatically, as though wired into a routine he did not recall learning.

 

A faint pull at his hem drew his eyes downward.

 

A child - an adorable little doe - stared up at him with wide, shimmering blue eyes. Not crimson. Not his own shade. A pale, freckled muzzle. Ears like soft red fans. Two tiny antennae sprouted from between the fluff, twitching alongside her ears as she watched him. Her scent was faintly sweet. Omega.

 

She looked like him.

 

Maman!

 

Her voice chimed like a plucked string -  musical and impossibly innocent.

 

“Mm? Is something wrong?” he heard himself reply, tone light and affectionate. Familiar in a way that made something inside him curl like burnt paper.

 

He wiped his hands reflexively against the apron tied around his waist. A dress. He was wearing a dress. Soft fabric brushing his knees. Bare hooves against cool tile. A spotless kitchen bathed in gentle light. He made sure it was kept immaculate. 

 

His palm drifted lower.

 

It brushed a swell beneath the fabric.

 

His belly.

 

Pregnant.

 

No - 

 

No. No. Impossible.

 

The world around him shimmered like a heat mirage. It was Vox’s penthouse… but altered, seasoned by time. Polished floors. Updated décor. Walls softened by framed photographs. One caught his eye with horrifying clarity - a family portrait.

 

Himself seated primly, smiling that docile little smile Omegas were trained to perfect. Two children at his side, both with hints of him and Vox mingled in their faces. And behind them, Vox stood tall and proud, one hand resting on the back of Alastor’s chair, the other resting on their older daughter’s shoulder. The perfect family. The perfect picture.

 

His breath stuttered.

 

This was wrong. All of this was wrong.

 

He blinked hard. His pupils shrank sharply - retching into pinpricks within the red of his eyes as something cold crawled down his spine.

 

Where was he?

 

Why was he here?

 

He turned slowly, frantically, searching for the cracks - any hint of distortion, any sign that this was a trick, a hallucination, a - … 

 

The child tugged harder, little fingers digging into the fabric as her anxiety rose.

 

“Maman? Maman?”

 

Shut up. Shut the fuck up. 

 

The word stabbed through him like a rusted blade.

 

He stared at her. Really stared. And the room seemed to tilt.

 

This wasn’t real. This couldn’t be real. 

 

He would never - this couldn’t be his fucking life. 

 

His chest tightened. His throat constricted as if a rope had been slipped around it.

 

No. Nononono - 

 

He stumbled backward, legs buckling. The kitchen blurred. The light fractured. The child’s hand slipped from his skirt as he collapsed onto his knees, breath shuddering out of him in a strangled sob he didn’t recognize as his own.

 

The room wavered.

 

Reality twisted.

 

His heart hammered against the cage of his ribs as the edges of the vision began to dissolve - and still, that small blue-eyed girl watched him with innocent worry.

 

“Maman…?”

 

Get away from me. 

 

Alastor’s hands dug into the floor.

 

And the world cracked open.

 

❧

 

Niffty was there when he finally tore himself free from the nightmare.

 

He woke with a violent, choking inhale - body jerking as if ripped from deep water. The world slammed back into focus in fractured pieces. His breath hitched, sharp and ragged, each gasp scraping his throat raw. Before he could stop himself, he curled inward on instinct, limbs folding in tight, as if trying to protect organs that were no longer under threat. The panic didn’t abate. It only tightened - rage and terror snarling together until they became indistinguishable.

 

A strangled sound clawed its way out of him. His teeth ground together hard enough to ache. His fingers dug into his own arms. His pulse shattered against his skin.

 

The dream clung to him like wet cloth.

 

But then - soft murmurs. A gentle weight on the mattress. Tiny fingers threading carefully into his disheveled mane, combing through with heartbreaking patience. Niffty’s presence seeped into the chaos before he fully recognized her scent. So wonderfully clean and unobtrusive. Familiar, like the faint glow of a candle in a pitch-dark room.

 

Her scent wrapped gently around him. 

 

“Alastor… shh…” she whispered, voice small but steady. “It’s okay. You’re okay. You’re here. You’re safe with me. You hear me? Safe.”

 

He blinked hard, vision swimming. His ears flattened, trembling. And when his gaze finally lifted to hers he felt the tension in his chest splinter. His eyes were wet. Embarrassingly so. But there was no judgement present in her gaze. Only a loving warmth. 

 

Instead, she repositioned herself with quiet care, guiding him until his head rested against her tiny lap. Her fingers resumed their steady passes through his hair, smoothing the tangles as if tending a frightened animal. She didn’t ask questions. Didn’t pry. Her touch was the anchor he couldn't reach on his own.

 

His arms moved without conscious thought, wrapping around her small frame - not possessive, but desperate. Clutching. Needing the contact like a creature clinging to driftwood in a storm.

 

Niffty cooed soft reassurances, her voice warm and gently rhythmic, easing past the jagged edges of his breathing.

 

“There you go,” she murmured. “Just breathe for me. I’ve got you. I’m right here.”

 

And for a moment - just a moment - Alastor allowed himself to sink into her comfort. To let the nightmare’s residue drain away in trembling breaths. To be seen like this - so small and weak - and held anyway.

 

It was humiliating.

 

It was necessary.

 

It was the first time since the castle that he’d let anyone properly touch him without calculation.

 

And he clung to her as though the nightmare might return if he dared loosen his grip.

 

❧

 

He didn’t bother with sleep for what remained of the night. The very idea of closing his eyes again - of risking even a moment’s return to that manufactured domestic horror - was enough to make bile rise in his throat. Every time he blinked, he saw them: the little hands tugging on his skirt, the portrait on the wall, the weight of a life not chosen but carved for him. A life that could be waiting if he played his role too well. Or not well enough. Or simply lost control of the smallest variable.

 

The vision clung to him like dried blood. A future sculpted from everything he hated. Everything that threatened to devour him.

 

So he sat, cigarette in hand, having fled to the back step.

 

The dawnless hour was mercifully quiet. The hellish insects chittered in soft, discordant rhythms - wrong but steady, and somehow comforting in their own wretched way. If he closed his eyes, just for a moment, he could pretend the sound was mundane. Crickets instead of twisted, many-legged crawlers. Moist earth instead of scorched soil. His maman humming in the kitchen instead of the faint crackle of suffering drifting from distant streets.

 

He shut his eyes now, inhaling slow. The smoke curled from his nostrils. He imagined the bayou. The cool air before sunrise. The chirping of frogs. The rustle of leaves not yet eaten through by decay. He pretended, fiercely, that he wasn’t trapped in this realm of eternal consequence. Trapped in a hierarchy designed to cage him until the end of time. Trapped between Rosie’s expectations and Vox’s clinging, earnest devotion.

 

Perhaps this was his punishment.

 

One that had been throughly woven into the tapestry of his fate.

 

Domesticity. The stripping of identity, piece by piece, beneath layers of lace and obligation.

 

Perhaps Hell had crafted this for him specifically, tailored to ensure the one torment he could never claw his way free from.

 

His jaw clenched around the cigarette.

 

And then - suddenly - the insects went silent.

 

Not faded. Not shifted. Silenced, as though crushed beneath a heavy palm. Even Hell stayed quiet when something worse arrived.

 

Alastor’s ears twitched sharply, the fur along his arms prickling. Instinct pushed his eyes open.

 

A shadow fell across him.

 

The air churned with static and the sickly-sweet scent of angelic corruption. A figure approached, boasting dragon-like wings and curved horns. His masked grin was too wide. His teeth too sharp. The faint burn of warped celestial magic wrapped around him like unraveling light. Eyes glowing with a hunger that was not entirely physical.

 

“Hey, babe,” he crooned, voice low and dripping with amusement. “Missed ya.”

 

Alastor didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His chest tightened. His cigarette burned unevenly between his fingers as he stood frozen in place. 

 

Adam leaned in as his clawed feet touched the ground, shadows curling from his form.

 

“Did ya miss me?”

Chapter 13: 13

Notes:

A heads up. We’re still in the early stages of the story. All the characters listed in the tags are going to be introduced. And their respective relationships expanded upon. Similar to how I’ve fleshed out Alastor’s bond with Niffty. Which means there’s quite a bit of work to be done. But we’re chipping away at it.

I definitely appreciate the reception I’ve received thus far with this story. And I do apologize for spamming y’all’s alerts with chapters. I have a lot of free time. So I’ve been constantly writing and editing. :)

Adam took a drag from the cigarette - Alastor’s cigarette, offered without hesitation. It was almost laughable, how natural it looked: a Fallen Angel leaning against the siding of an Omega’s little home, shoulders relaxed with smoke curling past serrated teeth. Alastor knew he should have been trembling under that burning, crimson stare. Fear should have been coiling in his gut, tightening his lungs and forcing his gaze downward.

 

But instead he only blinked up at him. Polite and detached. Too weary to maintain the persona he so carefully curated.

 

He couldn’t muster the energy to be afraid.

 

Not after everything.

 

“Ya look like shit,” Adam said bluntly, smoke trailing from the corner of his mouth. “What’s goin’ on in that pretty head of yours?”

 

The smoke’s scent mingled with Alastor’s own, the faintest hint of heat still clinging to him despite his best efforts to scrub it away. Adam didn’t comment on it - though Alastor saw the brief dilation of his pupils, a quiet inhale that indicated the flaring of nostrils beneath the mask. 

 

But instead of pouncing on the vulnerability, Adam simply waited.

 

So Alastor talked.

 

For the first time, he spoke plainly - without theatrics nor deflection. He explained the cycle, Vox’s courtship, Rosie’s interference and the suffocating implications of everything that followed. He didn’t soften the details. Adam didn’t interrupt. His silence was uncanny. His attention razor-sharp. A predator listening not to pounce - but to understand.

 

By the time Alastor finished, Adam was idly flicking ash off the cigarette, his expression thoughtful in a surprisingly grounded way.

 

“So - lemme get this straight.” He took another drag, holding it deep in his chest before letting the smoke spill past his teeth. “You’re gettin’ married off to that TV-headed freak?”

 

Alastor’s lips tightened.

 

Adam squinted at him. “Huh. Thought you were into him. You were makin’ googly eyes back at the castle. What the fuck’s changed?”

 

Alastor exhaled sharply, a humorless sound. “It changed when I realized just how fucked I am.”

 

That was the truth of it. Vox’s affection only highlighted the reality he’d been trying so desperately to ignore; he had no choices. Not meaningful ones. Not with his designation dragging behind him like a chain. His little foray into political maneuvering had only shown how narrow the path truly was.

 

Adam hummed low in his throat, scratching absently at his jaw. 

 

“I need to beg a boon from Lucifer,” Alastor murmured. “He’s my only way out of this.”

 

Adam snorted. “Why not just get hitched? Is he a piece of shit? Didn’t fuck ya the way ya wanted?”

 

The casual crudeness of the question made Alastor’s eye twitch.

 

“It’s not that,” he said tightly.

 

Adam arched a brow. “Then what? He got a tiny dick? Weird-shaped? Shoots confetti? C’mon, sweetheart - I need some entertainment.”

 

Alastor glared, but Adam’s grin only widened.

 

“I don’t want to lose myself,” Alastor said, quietly.

 

That wiped the smirk clean off Adam’s face. For a moment, the Fallen Angel simply watched him, crimson eyes gleaming with something unfamiliar - recognition, perhaps. Or understanding. Or pity disguised as hunger.

 

Then Adam leaned back, clearing the ash that settled at the cigarette’s tip with a light movement. 

 

“Well,” he drawled, “sounds like you’re fucked either way.”

 

His smile turned sharp. 

 

“Ever heard of the ‘Curse of Eve?’”

 

The question landed like a stone dropped into still water. Alastor’s breath paused in his chest. Of course he’d heard of it. Every Omega had. It whispered through old stories and cautionary tales - murmured in hushed tones by elders in the mortal world and echoed in the darker corners of Hell. Eve, the second Omega, the archetype of submission and sin, the mother of all those shackled to a weaker soul and a cyclical vulnerability.

 

He had dismissed it as folklore. A cruel myth designed to keep his kind obedient.

 

But the moment Adam said the name, something inside him recoiled as if struck.

 

“Yes,” Alastor answered, slowly. “I’ve… heard of her.”

 

Adam let out a low whistle, amused by the understatement. He flicked the spent cigarette away and crossed his arms over his broad chest, wings shifting with the motion. “Heh. You ain’t just heard of her, sweetheart. You’re livin’ the fallout.”

 

Alastor stiffened. “What do you mean?”

 

“What do you think I mean?” Adam cocked his head, eyes gleaming with that unsettling, almost cherubic malice only a Fallen Angel could manage. “Eve was the second Omega following Lilith’s fall. The chosen template. The poor bitch got saddled with the whole package after that whole shitshow -  bleedin’, breedin’, weak-as-water soul, no path to power and always dependent on whatever Alpha took her fancy. Which happened to be me.” He shrugged. “And every Omega since has inherited a piece of her punishment.”

 

Alastor blinked, the words sliding into him like cold needles. He felt suddenly too aware of his own body - its softness, its heat and its cyclic fragility.

 

“So it’s real?” he whispered.

 

“It’s real,” Adam replied, simply. No fanfare. No dramatics. Just the quiet truth dropped between them like a guillotine.

 

And somehow, that made it worse.

 

Alastor’s throat constricted. “And that’s why… my soul is - ”

 

“Weak as shit, yeah,” Adam finished for him, blunt as a hammer. “That’s why ya can’t climb. Why no Omega’s ever been an Overlord. Why you’re all fightin’ with a hand tied behind your back.” He tapped his temple. “It’s baked into your blueprint. You’re not meant to rule, babe. You’re meant to be ruled.”

 

The air left Alastor’s lungs in a slow, brittle exhale. Shame and fury warred within him, a volatile cocktail bubbling beneath his ribs. He had always known he was at a disadvantage. But knowing - and hearing it named aloud by a being who had once stood beside God - were two vastly different things.

 

A truth spoken by Heaven itself carried a weight no demon’s insult ever could.

 

His claws bit into the palms of his hands as they curled tightly into fists. “So every Omega is… cursed?”

 

Adam’s expression softened. Barely. Almost imperceptibly. “Not cursed, exactly. More like… designed.” He nudged Alastor with his shoulder, the gesture startlingly casual. “And Hell makes it worse. Everything’s amplified down here. Instinct. Heat. Power imbalances. It ain’t just biology, sweetheart - it’s metaphysical.”

 

Alastor’s stomach twisted.

 

“Wonderful,” he croaked. “So I'm an eternal soul built by Heaven and perfected by Hell.”

 

“Pretty much.” Adam looked bizarrely sympathetic for half a second before the wicked smile returned. “But hey, could be worse. At least you’re pretty.”

 

Alastor glared at him.

 

Adam grinned wider.

 

Yet beneath the banter, the truth lingered like rot beneath fresh paint:

 

He would never, ever be free without divine intervention.
 

And Lucifer was the only being left who could possibly rewrite what Eve had suffered and what he had inherited.

 

Adam must have sensed where Alastor’s thoughts went. He hummed, tapping a claw against the chin of his mask. 

 

“Tv-Head can’t give ya what ya want even if ya begged for it. He ain’t got the juice to change the rules. He plays by them. Just like every other Sinner and Hellborn in existence. Only the big man can manage that.” His grin sharpened. “Lucky for you… he read your letter.”

 

Alastor’s heart stopped.

 

“He did?”

 

Adam leaned in, voice dropping low, almost conspiratorial.

 

“He read it. And that’s why I’m here.”

 

Suddenly the night air felt suffocating.

 

“You’ll always be an Omega,” Adam said, voice dropping into that maddeningly casual register he used when speaking about horrors like they were chores. “Cycles, biology… that shit’s locked in. Can’t rewrite somethin’ built into the bones of Creation. And honestly?” His grin sharpened, wicked and hungry. “It’d be a tragedy if you lost that sweet cunt of yours. Bet it’s real tight. I’m still pissed that TV-Head got to split you open first. I wonder if I’ll get a turn.”

 

A low, lecherous chuckle escaped him. Slow and savoring, as though the mere idea painted something obscene behind his eyes. Alastor’s smile strained at the edges, but Adam only nudged him with his elbow, amused by the discomfort.

 

“But,” Adam continued, “your soul? That’s different. Lucifer could strengthen it. Push it past the limits that little Curse slapped on your kind. Make ya capable of keepin’ up with the big dogs - instead of barely nippin’ at their heels.”

 

The words landed like a flare thrown into pitch-black water.
 

Illuminating something Alastor had longed for so desperately it almost hurt to look at it straight-on.

 

Power. 

 

Autonomy.

He swallowed, the motion tight and painfully audible. “Strengthen my soul,” he echoed, tasting the impossible on his tongue. “Enough to rise? Enough to compete?”

 

Adam gave a single, deliberate nod. “Enough to stop bein’ prey.”

 

The hope that surged through him was humiliating in its intensity. It lit him from the inside, fragile and trembling, like a match struck in a storm. He had to force himself not to lean forward like a starving hound scenting food.

 

“What would he want?” Alastor asked, voice thin.

 

Adam stopped grinning.

 

The shift was immediate.

A rare moment where the Fallen Angel’s arrogance folded inward, replaced by something harder and unmistakably celestial. His wings gave a subtle twitch, as though something in him bristled at the gravity of the question.

“Everything,” Adam said, simply. His tone didn’t rise; it didn’t need to. The word itself felt heavy enough to bow the air between them. “Lucifer doesn’t deal in scraps. If he’s gonna rewrite the path your soul is allowed to walk? He’ll ask for somethin’ that matters.”

 

“Everything,” Alastor repeated, soft as prayer - or curse.

 

“Mm.” Adam’s gaze pinned him - a predator’s assessment mixed with something like reluctant respect. “But maybe,” he added. And the slightest edge of a smirk returned, “you can barter the price down. You’re probably good at that. You’ve already caught his eye, after all.”

 

A chill rippled down Alastor’s spine - not from fear of Lucifer’s attention, but from what it implied. The King of Hell remembered him. The King of Hell had read his letter. The King of Hell was considering him.

 

And Lucifer Morningstar did nothing without reason.

 

Alastor exhaled slowly, fighting to keep his voice steady. “What… exactly does ‘everything’ entail?”

 

Adam tilted his head back and laughed - loud, sharp and devoid of any warmth.

 

“That’s the fun part, babe,” he drawled. “It’s different for everyone. But whatever he takes?” He leaned in, eyes glowing like embers. “You don’t get it back.”

 

“I - ”

 

Whatever weak sound he’d tried to form withered as Adam lifted a hand, palm out, then pointed at him in one smooth, unhurried arc. The gesture was almost languid, yet it cut through Alastor’s spiraling thoughts like a blade.

 

“Another thing,” Adam said. His tone shifted, gaining a crispness that warned Alastor to brace himself. “Lucifer wants you to think real long and hard about this. Even if you’re ready to strike a deal right now?” He tapped his temple. “He’s not.”

 

That alone felt like a slap - infuriatingly paternal, infuriatingly dismissive - but Adam continued before he could react.

 

“But,” the Fallen Angel added, “he’s willing to grant you a small boon.”

 

Alastor swallowed, throat suddenly dry. “Why?”

 

Adam’s eyes hooded. He considered the Omega for a long, measured moment - as though deciding how honest to be. His lips curled, expression somewhere between disdain and inevitability.

 

“He’s not had his eyes on an Omega since that bitch-wife of his left.”

 

The words landed with the force of a physical blow.

 

Oh.

 

Alastor met his gaze.

 

“You can’t be serious.”

 

Alastor’s voice cracked in a way he despised. Adam only shrugged, rolling his shoulders as though he were discussing the weather rather than the King of Hell’s interest in an Omega.

 

“I’m just the messenger, babe.” His grin tilted, hungry and derisive. “And hey - he ain’t the worst choice. He’s a fuckin’ short stack, sure, but that don’t mean shit when you’re dealin’ with his ‘weight class’.”

 

“I need to speak with him, Adam,” Alastor pressed, stepping forward, voice thinning with desperation. “I need to. I don’t have time to wait for whatever game he’s playing.”

 

Adam’s expression snapped sharp. Gone was the lazy amusement; his lip curled into a sneer.  He closed the distance between them in a single looming stride, his shadow swallowing Alastor whole.

 

“Fix that face,” Adam growled, his voice low. “And fix that fuckin’ tone while you’re at it.”

 

Alastor’s ears flattened, instinct curling his spine. Yet something snapped inside him - something frayed and too tired to cower. His lips peeled back, a narrow snarl cutting through his teeth. A low rumble rose from deep within his chest, thin but undeniable.

 

Adam stopped mid-breath.

 

“You didn’t.” A heartbeat. “You did.”

 

He barked out a laugh. 

 

“Did you just growl at me?” He doubled over, nearly choking with amusement. “Oh, that’s adorable. That’s fuckin’ adorable.”

 

The blow came instantly after the laughter died. A clean, vicious backhand that cracked against Alastor’s cheekbone. His vision burst white, his ears rang and he hit the ground hard enough to rattle bone. He barely had time to register pain before Adam towered above him, eyes gleaming with predatory approval.

 

“You’re an uppity bitch,” Adam said, voice low and almost fond. “I like that. But you know better. That shit should’ve been beaten outta you ages ago. Doubt that TV-headed twink-freak has the balls for it - so I’ll do both him and the King a fuckin’ favor.”

 

His hand reached down, fingers curling with intent - ready to clamp around Alastor’s throat. The doe’s pupils dilated at the sight. Frozen.

 

“No!”

 

The sharp, furious bark came not from Alastor, but from the blur that tore across the yard. Niffty launched herself like a thrown blade, burying her fanged mouth deep into Adam’s palm.

 

“Fuck!”

 

Adam’s roar cracked across the town. He flung his arm wildly, trying to shake the furious little Beta off, but she held on with savage determination, legs kicking as teeth dug deeper.

 

“Niffty - !” Alastor gasped, scrambling upright.

 

Adam finally dislodged her with a violent flick that sent her slamming into the ground. She skidded, but sprang up as if pulled by wires, bristling like a tiny, rabid animal. She planted herself directly in front of Alastor as he found his hooves, brandishing a kitchen knife she must’ve grabbed in her frenzy.

 

“Alastor’s mine,” she snarled, voice trembling but fierce. “No touch. Ever!”

 

Adam stared at her like she had sprouted a second head. Then his nostrils flared, the temperature around them rising.

 

“I’ve killed for far less than the shit you just pulled, bitch.”

 

Niffty lunged and Adam caught her mid-air by the throat. Her legs kicked wildly, teeth snapping at empty space as he lifted her effortlessly, fingers tightening with slow, awful deliberation. His smile stretched, hungry.

 

“Little pest,” he hissed. “I oughta - ”

 

“Adam. Adam, wait. Sire.”

 

Alastor staggered forward, heart clawing at his ribs. His voice cracked, raw and pleading. 

 

“Please - she doesn’t know any better. I beg you… don’t harm her.”

 

Adam paused.

Actually paused.

 

And Alastor dared to hope in that instant.

 

The cruel grin faltered as he flicked a glance at him - testing, weighing and very much amused by this new angle of control. The moment stretched thin, Alastor’s breath caught in his throat.

 

Adam’s grip eased. Not enough to free her. But it was enough to tease hope.

 

“On your knees,” he ordered.

 

Alastor froze. Fury flared as his jaw clenched. 

 

But Adam only narrowed his eyes, thumb tightening threateningly on Niffty’s windpipe.

 

“Now,” he growled. “Before I pop her head like a fuckin’ grape.”

 

Niffty’s thin, frightened whimper spurred him forward with humiliating ease. Pride cracked beneath the sound. Alastor felt himself lower - slowly, mechanically - until his knees touched the ground. Every inch downward scraped at his dignity, leaving it raw and bleeding beneath his skin. His hands hovered uselessly before settling on his thighs, trembling despite his attempt to discipline his posture. He hated how small he felt. How easy it was to fold. He hated that Adam could wring such obedience from him with so little effort.

 

“That's it,” Adam murmured, savoring the sight as if admiring a piece of art. “Now ain’t that a pretty sight. You’re right where you belong.”

 

The words slithered over him, oily and smug. They sank into him like heat soaking into bruised flesh. Before he could think, the command followed - low and bordering on conversational.

 

“Now apologize.”

 

Alastor’s permanent smile tightened, its edges trembling like a strained muscle. Something flickered behind his eyes - a quick flash of something feral - but he forced it down. 

 

“I apologize,” he said, voice honeyed but hollow.

 

Adam didn’t even pretend to accept it. His grip on Niffty tightened, the small crack of pressure making her gasp and scrabble helplessly at the air. Her legs kicked. Her tiny nails scraped at nothing. The threat simmered between them - not subtle nor was it meant to be. Alastor’s breath hitched and the world narrowed to the rising panic beneath his ribs.

 

He bent further, crawling his way into deeper humiliation. His hands pressed into the dirt. His forehead followed, until he felt grit scrape against his skin. A pose of subservience so complete it scraped at his spine, tugging something ancient and instinctive into stillness. 

 

“I apologize, Sire. Forgive me.” 

 

The added formality stung on his tongue, but it bought him what he needed.

 

Adam’s satisfaction came in a single grunt. He released Niffty without care, dropping her as if she weighed nothing. She hit the ground with a squeal but recovered instantly, scrambling over the dirt to throw herself into Alastor’s arms. He pulled her close with a desperation that belied his usual polish, curling protectively around her tiny frame as though he could shield her from what had already happened. Her trembling seeped into him, amplifying his own.

 

Adam watched them for a beat - two small, wounded creatures clutching each other - and something like delight flickered in his eyes. He leaned forward, letting the scent of smoke and brimstone coat the air between them. 

 

“Think over that boon,” he warned, voice dropping into something deeper and more dangerous. “Make it small. And be fuckin’ grateful for it.” 

 

He straightened, looming over them like a hanging execution blade. 

 

“I’ll see ya in a week. And I expect a better welcome next time. Is that understood?”

 

Alastor’s nod was stiff and little more than a jerking motion forced by instinct and necessity. 

 

“Yes, Sire,” he murmured, each syllable scraped raw.

 

Air rushed downward as Adam launched into the sky, a violent burst of movement that rattled the shutters and whipped dust into their faces. In a blink, he was gone - leaving the night fractured and trembling in his wake.

 

And for several long seconds, Alastor remained frozen on the ground. Kneeling. Holding Niffty against him as though she were the one anchoring him to the moment instead of the other way around. His chest rose and fell too quickly. 

 

His veins throbbed with humiliation so potent it felt like sickness. 

Chapter 14: 14

It was almost laughable how unsurprising the news was when it finally reached him. Alastor had known it was coming, sensed it the way animals sense a storm. He didn’t flinch when Rosie pressed the official parchment into his hands, its edges crisp and its blue wax seal already half-broken from her inspection. She looked strangely muted - her usual musical lilt hollowed out into something sharper and flatter. It was the tone of a businesswoman signing off on a deal rather than a caretaker addressing her Omega.

 

He stood in the cramped brightness of his kitchen, staring down at the document. The elegant handwriting blurred for a moment before resolving into the words he’d dreaded and expected in equal measure.

 

Marriage.
 

A formal claim.

 

Not a temporary arrangement, not a heat partnership and not a trial. A binding contract. A transfer of ownership. A public tether. Something that would cement him not only to Vox’s side - but beneath him.

 

Rosie had received the request immediately after he’d been dropped off. She’d apparently reviewed Vox’s terms for hours and endorsed them with measured care over the span of weeks. Alastor saw the evidence of her deliberation in the scribbled addendums: clauses ensuring her compensation, ensuring the stability of her district and ensuring her prestige.

 

He had been sold.

 

How fucking lovely.

 

“I refuse,” he said, voice eerily flat. 

 

Rosie blinked at him as though he’d recited a children’s riddle. Something in her face shifted - an unmistakable flicker of amusement. She folded her hands neatly before her waist and waited as though indulging a tantrum.

 

“I refuse,” he repeated, sharper. 

 

This time she didn’t even pretend to take the sentiment seriously. Her painted lips pressed together before curving into a soft, pitying smile.

 

“Alastor, my heart,” she crooned, warm and dismissive all at once. “You never had a choice. Let’s not pretend otherwise.”

 

She didn’t argue nor make an attempt to soothe. She simply handed the rest of the documents over: details of the ceremony, the timing, the placement of the bond - his neck, of course; the most conspicuous and humiliating option. There would be photographers. Witnesses. A public registry. His face plastered across Hell as Vox’s mate, wife and property. Not Alastor the radio host. Not Alastor the Omega who miraculously maneuvered through impossible confines. Just another pretty ornament hanging off an Alpha’s arm.

 

He tore the papers to shreds.

 

Rosie didn’t flinch. She didn’t scold either. She simply watched, then shrugged lightly and left as though he’d merely rejected the wrong color of drapes.

 

Niffty cleaned up the scraps at his feet with quiet efficiency while his hands shook.

 

❧

 

Vox arrived the next day.

 

Alastor felt the dread coil low in his gut the moment he heard the knock. Vox stepped inside with a softness so cloying it made Alastor’s skin crawl. Concern shone from every pixelated line of his face, every tilt of his head. And Alastor hated him, briefly, for being so gentle. For looking at him like something fragile and precious.

 

“I heard what happened,” Vox said, stepping closer. “Rosie said you were upset.”

 

Upset.

 

As though this wasn’t conscription. As though this wasn’t the tightening of a noose.

 

“I don’t want to get married,” Alastor said, plainly. “I refuse your proposal.”

 

The words tasted like iron in his mouth, but he forced each one through . His arms were wrapped tightly around himself; he sidestepped Vox’s reaching hand, and the flinch on the Alpha’s screen was so raw it almost invited pity.

 

Almost.

 

“Alastor, honey…” Vox tried again.

 

“What,” Alastor snapped, so sharply the air between them seemed to crack.

 

Vox swallowed, visibly recalibrating. The softness in his posture didn’t vanish but it thickened - congealed into something paternal and suffocatingly certain.

 

“I get it,” Vox said, gently. “Commitment is scary. Marriage changes everything. But it’s the natural cycle of life.” He stepped closer, opening his arms in a grand, hopeful gesture. “You waited your whole life for the right Alpha. I can be that for you. I want to be that.”

 

The way he said it almost made Alastor laugh again. He’d wanted to use Vox. That was all. But Vox had twisted it into some grotesque romance.

 

He’d mistaken his manipulations for love.

 

“No, Vox,” Alastor said.

 

A small, brittle sigh left the Alpha. For a moment Alastor thought - hoped - he’d step back. Reconsider. Allow some breathing room. But then Vox’s expression hardened in a way that made Alastor’s stomach twist.

 

“Alastor, baby. Look at me.”

 

He didn’t. He stared at anything else - the stove, the counter and even the floor. Anywhere but that glowing, hopeful screen. The gifts he’d destroyed lingered in the back of his mind. The ashes of bouquets. The torn fabric. The shredded letters. All of it was gone. 

 

“Alastor.”

 

He still wouldn’t look.

 

“Alastor.”

 

Hands clamped around his biceps, firm and unyielding. Vox shook him - once, sharply. Not violently, but with a simmering frustration. Alastor startled, eyes widening as he finally looked up.

 

And Vox’s new screen loomed over him - sleeker and upgraded yet again. The Alpha had grown a little larger, he realized. 

 

“I’m doing what’s best for you,” Vox said, voice thick with sincerity. “You’ve been unclaimed for decades. It isn’t healthy for an Omega. That’s why you’re acting hysterical.”

 

Hysteria.

 

The misogynistic diagnosis that had plagued Omega history since the dawn of the hierarchy. The belief that Omegas grew “sick” without domesticity. That their minds frayed without an Alpha to serve as their steadfast guide. That their emotions unknotted only with marriage, breeding and obedience.

 

Of course Vox believed it.

It made everything easier.

 

Made his abrupt reversal make perfect sense.

 

“I’m not - ” Alastor began.

 

His throat locked. He looked away.

 

“Let me go.”

 

“Alastor - ”

 

“I said let me the fuck go.”

 

The grip only tightened.

 

“I’m doing this for you,” Vox insisted. “For us. For our future.”

 

Alastor laughed - sharp and cracked, a sound closer to hysteria than anything Vox imagined. When it died, he bared his teeth.

 

“Oh, really? How noble. How selfless. This isn’t for me and you know it.”

 

Vox frowned, the screen dimming slightly.

 

“Of course I care about how you feel.”

 

“Do you?” Alastor hissed, mockingly. “Do you really?”

 

He tried to pull free again. It was like trying to pull free of iron shackles. His Omega body was useless in comparison -  his strength a joke. The disparity was humiliating.

 

“Once you’re settled in,” Vox soothed, “you’ll feel better. We can start on your radio show. Get you a hobby. Some friends. And when your next cycle comes around, we can try for our first - ”

 

“I don’t want children,” Alastor snapped. “I never did.” 

 

Vox blinked, taken aback.

 

Then the pity returned - and it was worse than anything else.

 

“Of course you do, Alastor. It’s what Omegas are hardwired for.”

 

He felt bile rise in his throat.

 

“I want you to leave,” Alastor whispered, an almost imperceptible tremor present. “Let me go. And get out. There won’t be a wedding.”

 

Vox’s shoulders sagged, but his resolve didn’t crack. He shook his head softly, sadly, as though Alastor were simply misguided.

 

“I’ll give you some time to calm down,” he said, gently. “I want you involved in the planning. It’s our day, after all.”

 

Alastor turned away, arms crossed and jaw tight.

 

Vox lingered for a moment but left with a quiet click of the door.

❧

He coped the only way he knew how: by drowning himself in liquor and smoke until the world softened into something blurred and mercifully unrecognizable. The alcohol was a balm and a weapon both, scalding his throat and numbing the raw panic that gnawed at his ribs. If he drank enough - if he pushed hard enough into that chemical fog - Rosie’s patronizing smile and Vox’s tender, cloying gaze dissolved into indistinct shapes. 

 

Their words, their expectations and their plans for his life became ghostly murmurs. It was a relief to forget. It was the only relief left to him.

 

He started early, long before the sunless Hell-morning fully brightened the skyline. Breakfast became a distant, laughable concept. His first drink was his meal, bitter and cold and far more comforting than anything solid. And once he began, he didn’t stop. His belly held little more than liquor, beer or wine; his senses were soaked through with it. The familiar burn in his chest was preferable to the tightness of dread sitting there otherwise.

 

His collection had grown over decades. Bottles tucked away in neat rows, amassed like trophies of his long, dry patience. Now, he tore through them with abandon. 

 

At first he poured the drinks properly, maintaining the illusion of civility. A glass. A measured tilt. A moment’s pause before drinking. But that façade crumbled quickly. He stopped bothering with the glass entirely and drank straight from the bottle, the cool glass clinking against his teeth as he tipped back another mouthful. His body protested in small, fleeting ways - dizzy spells, the sluggish throb of his heart and joints heavy with exhaustion. But he pressed deeper into the stupor, welcoming it like an old friend.

 

He didn’t clean up after himself. Alastor didn’t care enough to. 

 

Bottles accumulated in corners, crowded countertops and rolled across the floor when nudged. Niffty cleaned them quietly, without reprimand or comment. She moved with a subdued urgency, her usual energetic bounce replaced by a gentle, careful attentiveness. She washed him when he couldn’t manage the bath alone, guided him to sit when he swayed too heavily, pressed cool cloths to his burning forehead and held his mane back when he lurched over the toilet - body wracked with tremors, the doe vomiting bile and alcohol.

 

She tried coaxing food past his lips. Softly worded encouragement. A plate set near his elbow. A glass of water pressed into his hand. Nothing worked. His refusal was quiet but ironclad and his stubbornness paired with intoxication made him immovable. All he wanted - all he demanded - was the bottle. The next hit of warmth. The next numbing swallow.

 

And his supply, tragically, was vast. He had collected too much over the years. Too many options to choose from. Too many opportunities to disappear into a haze where he didn’t have to feel anything at all.

 

❧

 

He awoke to motion. For a suspended moment he couldn’t tell if he was being carried or if the world had simply tilted under him. His mind was thick, stuffed with cotton and drowned in leftover liquor. A headache pulsed behind his eyes, aching for the only cure he trusted: another drink. His fingers twitched aimlessly, grasping for the imagined neck of a bottle that wasn’t there, expecting glass and weight and the promise of oblivion.

 

But instead there was only warm air and the faint creak of someone shifting him higher in their hold.

 

Alastor blinked. Once. Twice. One eyelid lagged behind the other, his vision swimming in and out of focus before settling, hazy and uncertain, on a familiar face hovering above him. A bright, projected smile. A cool blue glow. The silhouette of a body he knew too well.

 

“Vin… cent?” The name dribbled out of him, warped with confusion, tongue clumsy and thick.

 

Vox’s scent surrounded him - sharp, synthetic, layered with ozone and disinfectant. It pressed into Alastor’s drunken senses like a memory and a warning both.

 

“Let’s get you to bed, sweetheart,” Vox murmured. 

 

The utterance was soft. A coaxing lullaby in a voice that carried quiet possession beneath it.

 

Where had he been before this? The sofa. Yes - he remembered stumbling toward it with a bottle clutched to his chest, barely making it onto the cushions before everything went black. Had that been minutes ago? Hours? How long had Vox been inside his home? How had he gotten in? And why… why hadn’t Alastor noticed?

 

The questions never solidified. They slipped away like water through his fingers.

 

He felt himself being lowered onto the mattress, the bed dipping under his weight. His arms flopped uselessly at his sides, his legs heavy and slack. Vox’s hands were careful as they worked at the half-buttoned shirt clinging crookedly to Alastor’s torso. The Omega hadn’t managed to dress himself properly earlier; he hadn’t cared enough to try. Buttons were  mismatched, fabric twisted and trousers crooked on his hips.

 

Now those clothes were peeled away with an attentiveness that felt foreign. Ritualistic. Undeniably intimate in a way that made a faint flicker of awareness rise - and then sink again beneath the liquor fog.

 

“What are… you doin’… in m’house?” The words slurred together, collapsing into each other as he squinted upward. “S’posed t’-supposed t’ be…”

 

He couldn’t even manage outrage. His tongue felt too numb. His body too distant.

 

“I wanted to check on you,” Vox replied, voice hushed - as though Alastor were fragile enough to crack under louder tones. 

 

He set the clothing aside, folding each piece with an almost reverent precision. Then came the undergarments, slipped away with the same gentleness, as though undressing a fevered child. No wandering hands. No leering. Just… deliberate care.

 

A blanket settled over him. Soft and heavy.

 

“Go back to sleep, Alastor.”

 

His name was a caress. A quiet command.

 

Alastor blinked up at him through a haze of exhaustion and liquor, trying to tether his thoughts long enough to protest. To demand distance. To ask how Vox had gotten in and why he was being handled like something helpless. But the warmth of the bed and the dizzy swirl in his vision dragged him under too quickly.

 

A clawed hand drifted through his mane, smoothing it back from his face with a tenderness that made his stomach twist.

 

And then sleep washed over him while Vox sat beside him, still stroking his hair.

 

❧

 

The first thing he noticed was the dryness in his mouth. A vague ache behind the eyes. A lingering churn in his stomach that suggested he had been ill earlier, though he remembered very little of it. Still - he felt moderately functional, all things considered. Functional enough to shuffle into the kitchen on unsteady hooves, the faint hum of a hangover buzzing beneath his skin.

 

He didn’t think. He simply reached - instinct guiding his hand toward the familiar cabinet above the counter, the one he had stuffed with bottles upon bottles of liquid salvation. Wine. Whiskey. Vodka. Rum. Colorful, comforting shapes he knew by hand and scent.

 

He opened the cabinet.

 

And stopped.

 

Blinking once. Twice. Then leaning forward, as if his proximity might magically repopulate the space.

 

Nothing.

 

Not a single bottle. Not even a stray cork.

 

He stared at the empty shelves in numbed disbelief, his thoughts crawling sluggishly into comprehension like insects from under a flipped stone. That couldn’t be right. He hadn’t even touched a third of his supply and he would never clean out the cabinet - not when it was the only steady anchor he had left.

 

He lurched toward the refrigerator next, flinging it open with a desperate burst of hope.

 

Fully stocked. Everything crisp and organized. Except… except the chilled bottles were missing too.

 

Every bottle. Every drop. Gone.

 

A tremor rippled through his chest. Breathing became too tight. Too shallow.

 

“Niffty?” he called, voice sharp around the edges. “Niffty - ?”

 

Silence answered him.

 

His ears swiveled wildly, searching for the delicate skittering of her movements, the quick patter of her feet, the cheerful hums that normally filled every corner of the home. Nothing. Not even the whisper of dust being swept. Just a thick, unnatural quiet pressing in from all sides.

 

Something icy trickled down his spine.

 

He staggered toward the back door, legs wobbling beneath him. His hand closed around the knob and twisted - 

 

Or tried to.

 

It didn’t move. Not even a rattle.

 

“What the fuck is this?” he hissed.

 

He headed to the front door, hope shrinking with each uneven step. He grabbed the knob and twisted again. Nothing. Not stuck - immovable. He leaned in, eyes narrowing - only to realize the entire locking mechanism had been ripped out and replaced with a smooth, welded plate.

 

His stomach dropped.

 

“What the fuck is this,” he repeated, voice cracking as panic clawed higher.

 

He checked the windows - every one had been sealed shut. Seamless frames. Reinforced glass. Not a crack of fresh air. No give at all beneath his claws.

 

He moved frantically from one barrier to the next, his breath hitching. The house felt smaller with every realization, the walls gathering like teeth.

 

After his fifth attempt at the front door he stumbled backward as he trembled. 

 

And then he saw it.

 

A single envelope resting neatly on the dining table.

 

His name written across the front in Rosie’s elegant script.

 

He approached slowly, as though nearing a bomb. His fingers quivered violently as he slit it open, unfolding the crisp paper with dread twisting his guts.

 

The message was brief, polite and horrifyingly composed.

 

Alastor,
It’s been decided that you’ll remain on house arrest until the wedding.
Supplies will be delivered regularly.
You’re expected to eat three meals a day and maintain your health.
You will be monitored until the ceremony.
I apologize for the inconvenience, dear, but it has become increasingly clear this is the best decision for you going forward.
- Rosie

 

He stared at the words for a long, suspended moment. Long enough for the meaning to fully sink its teeth into him.

 

House arrest.

A decision made for him because he had proven - in their eyes - unable to make one for himself.

 

His hands crumpled the letter.

 

His vision tunneled. 

 

His claws ripped at the roots of his hair after the paper fell away. 

 

And then he screamed.

 

A raw, animal sound. A sound that split the quiet and scraped the walls. 

Chapter 15: 15

In his head he built palaces.

 

Not real ones - but sprawling illusions stitched from desperation and hunger. In those fantasies he wore no collar, bore no brand and carried no designation that chained him to the bottom rung of Hell’s vast, merciless hierarchy. In those visions he was tall and monstrous; the kind of creature that bent shadows and demanded reverence. 

 

He pictured a life in which no Alpha could touch him without permission, where no Beta held sway over his livelihood; where power came from within rather than being stolen through careful flattery and quiet survival. He saw himself feared and respected in equal measure. 

 

In life the world had been primitive, but at least it had been fair. Alphas bled the same way he did. They could be lured into the bayou, separated, softened and carved apart like any other creature of flesh. They relied on strength; he relied on cunning. The battlefield had been level enough for him to stack bodies as high as he pleased.

 

But death had stolen even that thin equality.

 

In Hell, death was no escape. Nor an equalizer. Time and again he realized he could not topple what could not die. Strength here was static and unfair, cemented by soul-density and celestial lineage. 

 

It did not matter how clever he was - his soul was simply weaker. 

 

Adam’s explanation had confirmed what he suspected: a curse. Something inherited. Something ancient. Something designed to keep him small no matter what he did. Even in death, the “children of Eve” bore the mark of inferiority.

 

So what was this if not punishment? A tailor-made torment for an Omega who refused to be docile? A cosmic mockery of every rule he had broken in life, now returned tenfold that forced him down onto his knees?

Alastor curled deeper into himself, arms wound tight around his thin frame as he lay on his small bed. His chest rose and fell in small, trembling motions. Every exhale felt like it scraped something raw inside him.

 

Vox had visited earlier - of course he had. Vox drifted in and out like a well-meaning warden, always materializing when Alastor’s cage rattled too loudly. He found the deer standing at the stove, trembling and blank, staring at cold, untouched pans as though they were strange artifacts.

 

“Alastor, sweetheart,” Vox murmured, voice pitched warm and soothing, “when’s the last time you ate?”

 

Alastor had eaten, eventually - if “forcing down tasteless scraps under surveillance” counted as eating. The sausage and eggs he prepared turned to chalk on his tongue. He chewed mechanically, aware of Vox’s eyes tracking every movement, studying him the way a doctor studies a skittish patient. 

 

Vox didn’t sit across from him like an equal - he stood leaning against the counter, arms folded, pretending to be gentle while radiating the quiet, rigid authority of someone who believed he knew better.

 

“You didn’t eat yesterday either,” Vox said, softly. “Omegas need regular meals. Your body can’t handle long fasts. You’ll feel better when you eat.”

 

The implication was heavy and suffocating: You are emotional. You are fragile. You are unstable. Let me manage you.

 

Vox eventually sat beside him, taking Alastor’s hands between his own. He held them as though they were precious relics. He pressed reverent kisses to the knuckles, lips warm and lingering. It made Alastor's stomach twist.

 

“I’m sorry this is frightening,” Vox whispered. “But once you settle in - once you give us a chance - you’ll see you’re happier. I promise.”

 

Alastor remembered the toiletries lined like offerings in the bathroom. The lingerie folded lovingly into drawers. The toys hidden behind them, curated with embarrassing specificity. The empty rooms meant for children he never wanted. The picture Vox must have of their future: a polished wife, tidy home and cheerful brood.

 

Alastor had given him nothing in return - no nod nor a flicker of understanding. Vox didn’t punish him. He only sighed and offered a patient, loving smile. It was infuriating. Like he was scolding a frightened animal. Like he was waiting out a tantrum.

 

“Eternity is long,” Vox had said as he left. “We’ll figure it out together.”

 

In the aftermath, Alastor scrubbed himself until his skin burned, then curled into his sheets with the lights set at the dimmest possible setting; trying not to think. Trying not to feel. Trying not to imagine a future wearing Vox’s ring.

 

But the silence didn’t hold.

 

A hand settled on his thigh - warm, large and decidedly not Vox’s. Alastor blinked, disoriented, assuming at first that Vincent had returned and that he wanted another round of soft comfort or forced intimacy.

 

But the silhouette was wrong. Too broad. Too tall. No soft glow. Only shadow and sulfur.

 

His eyes snapped open.

 

Adam.

 

The Fallen Angel crouched before him, shirtless and half-shifted. His claws draped over Alastor’s thigh like a man greeting a lover. His wings cast jagged shadows on the wall and his tail curled lazily behind him. His eyes glowed faintly, not with affection but hunger. 

 

“Hey, beautiful,” Adam rumbled, squeezing lightly. “Told ya I’d be back in a week. Gotta say - this is a way better welcome.”

 

Alastor’s breath hitched, but he steadied it before fear could betray him. Niffty was gone, tucked safely away by Rosie until after the wedding - meaning he was alone with an ancient creature who could undo him within the span of an instant. 

 

He was aware, distantly, that the way he slept - on his side, one leg bent slightly - offered Adam an unobstructed view. Of course the Fallen Angel noticed. 

 

Adam lowered himself until his chin rested on Alastor’s thigh, looking up at him like a monstrous hound awaiting command. His breath warmed the Omega’s furred skin.

 

“Are you here to give me my boon?” Alastor asked, forcing steadiness into his tone.

 

“Course, babe,” Adam purred. “Among other things. If you’re down.”

 

The deer lifted an unimpressed brow. “Lucifer would be cross with you.”

 

Adam snorted. “He ain’t called dibs just yet. Leaves me plenty of time to fuck around ‘till then.”

 

He pressed a kiss to Alastor’s thigh - firm and deliberately slow. Alastor’s tail twitched despite himself, an involuntary reaction that Adam instantly caught.

 

“You could take whatever you wanted,” Alastor said, voice harsher. “If you wanted to.”

 

“Yeah,” Adam agreed, easily. “Could.”

 

But he didn’t.

 

Instead, he shifted the Omega onto his back with effortless strength, parting his legs as though opening a book he intended to skim at leisure. Alastor allowed the movement, muscles coiled but smart enough not to resist. Adam kissed up his thigh toward the moist heat between his legs.

 

“Are you going to ask what I want?” Alastor demanded.

 

“Oh, I’ll ask what you want,” Adam chuckled - and then his tongue unfurled. Long and sharp. It slid between Alastor’s folds without warning, earning a startled jolt from the Omega.

 

“That’s not what I meant,” he hissed through his teeth. “You’re impossible.”

 

Adam only laughed, licking his lips with obscene satisfaction.

 

Alastor sat up sharply, glaring down at him. “Get off my bed, Adam.”

 

“Fine, fine.” Adam peeled himself away with theatrical grievance. “Fuckin’ ornery bitch.”

 

No real heat. Just amusement despite their previous interaction. It appeared as though his mood had improved after acquiring a ‘taste’. 

 

Only then did Alastor fully register that Adam was naked. Entirely. And half-hard at that. 

 

In one blink, his clothes reappeared. His entire ensemble came back into existence. He smirked behind the mask.

 

“Soooo,” Adam drawled. “Let’s hear it. Whaddaya want, babe?”

 

Alastor rose from the bed, ignoring the predator’s gaze tracking the movement. He retrieved a robe from his closet and wrapped it around himself with methodical grace. Adam scowled, disappointed, but said nothing.

 

The deer crossed his legs elegantly on the bed once he sat upon its edge, robe parting just enough to tempt without offering. The Fallen Angel’s eyes flicked downward, hopeful for another glimpse.

 

Alastor pretended not to notice.

 

He breathed once, deep and steady.

 

“I recall you mentioning,” Alastor began slowly, claws smoothing the edge of his robe as though aligning the threads of his own resolve, “that the request must remain… small. Manageable. A favor granted without expectation of repayment.”

 

Adam crossed his arms over his broad chest, watching him with that half-amused, half-predatory focus that always made the air feel a shade too warm. He gave a shallow nod, chin dipping once.

 

“Yup,” he said, simply. “Keep it cute. Nothing world-breaking. Nothing that’ll piss off someone cosmic.”

 

Alastor inhaled once, steady.

Then: “I want a way to alleviate the effects of a bond.”

 

The Fallen Angel’s grin froze. His head cocked to one side. Then he let out a long, low whistle that tapered into something like a laugh.

 

“Ohhh,” Adam drawled, dragging the sound out as his eyes glittered with sharp interest. “You’re a bold little bitch, aren’t ya?”

 

Suddenly the air felt heavier, like the room itself understood the enormity of what Alastor had just dared to speak aloud.

 

Claiming in Hell was not a simple ceremonial bite or decorative scar; it was a metaphysical tether. A fusion. A yoking of souls that allowed an Alpha’s influence to sink deep into the marrow of an Omega’s being. The psychological pull alone was enough to shape moods, soften defiance and steer desires. A bond made obedience easy - even pleasant. 

 

And under Hell’s curse, that tether was stronger still. Sharper. Designed to keep things exactly as they were: Alphas powerful and Omegas pliant.

 

Adam knew all of this. 

 

“Y’know,” Adam mused, one clawed thumb dipping lazily along a sharpened canine, “most Omegas don’t even think to ask shit like that. Too busy dreamin’ about white picket fences and fat Hellborn poppin’ outta their cunts.”

 

Alastor didn’t rise to the bait. He held Adam’s gaze evenly.

 

“If Vox claims me,” he said, “if anyone claims me… I lose myself.” His voice remained soft, but his eyes were flint. “Not immediately. But piece by piece. And I need my mind more than I need my body.”

 

Adam’s grin slowly reemerged - less mocking this time, more impressed.

 

“Clever,” he admitted. “Smart. Means you’re still thinkin’. Good.”

 

Because a bond in Hell was inescapable. Alastor would be tethered to Vox. And if he ever tried to sever it? Only another Alpha could overwrite it. A chain exchanged, never broken.

 

Unless - 

 

Unless the effects could be dulled.

 

If he could blunt the bond’s influence Alastor could feign compliance while keeping his autonomy intact. He could smile prettily, kneel convincingly and play the perfect Omega wife while quietly plotting a way out. A way up. A way through.

 

It wouldn’t free him outright.

 

But it would buy him time - precious breathing time to puzzle out another plan. 

 

Adam leaned forward, his devil-red gaze pinning Alastor in place.

 

“That’ll work, babe,” Adam said at last, his voice dropping into a low, satisfied rumble. “That’s just right inside the parameters. Nice ‘n small. Nothing Lucifer’ll throw a fit over.”

 

For a heartbeat Alastor simply stared at him, the words tumbling through him like stones thrown into still water. Relief came next - a sudden, unsteady wave that loosened the iron around his ribs. His posture softened by a fraction, shoulders slumping before he caught himself and forced his spine straight again.

 

Then Adam moved.

 

The Fallen Angel stepped into his space without hesitation, the air around him crackling faintly with heat and the faint scent of burning parchment. Alastor instinctively held himself rigid, refusing to retreat as a clawed fingertip hooked beneath his chin. The touch was deceptively light, almost tender in its precision - yet undeniably dangerous.

 

That first night resurfaced in a flash of memory: Adam leaning over him like a living flame, grinning with too many teeth, his presence overwhelming. 

 

“Don’t waste it,” Adam murmured, leaning down until their foreheads almost brushed. “Boons aren’t forever. You’ve got, oh…” He clicked his tongue thoughtfully. “Fifty years at best to unfuck yourself.”

 

Alastor’s heart lurched.

 

Fifty. 

 

In life, fifty years was nearly an entire mortal lifetime - long enough to change careers, cities and identities. Long enough to start anew. But here? In Hell, in eternity, where centuries passed like dust through fingers?

He swallowed once, forcing down the instinctive tremble that threatened to break loose. But the calculation had already begun inside him. Fifty years of pretending. Fifty years of playing Vox’s perfect little spouse if he must. Fifty years to solidify a plan within his mind and wriggle free. 

 

And after or during that - the real deal. The one that might finally cost him his very soul.

 

He exhaled carefully, then lifted his chin just slightly, meeting Adam’s crimson gaze head-on.

 

“I’ll take it,” he said, steady and irrevocable. “The boon. I’ll take it.”

 

A wolfish grin split Adam’s face. “Knew you would.”

 

He leaned in, the heat of him immediate and choking, like standing too close to an inferno. His breath ghosted over Alastor’s lips - sulfur-sweet and intoxicating. His tongue flicked out, a teasing brush against the Omega’s lower lip, tasting him like he was sampling the edge of a forbidden dessert.

 

Then Adam claimed his mouth.

 

The kiss wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t even carnal in the usual sense. It was possessive -  a force of nature pressing against Alastor with the weight of something ancient and holy and ruined. Adam kissed like a creature who had watched worlds burn and survived all of them.

 

And beneath that onslaught, something inside Alastor snapped open.

 

A surge of power shot through his core as the kiss deepened, their pointed tongues tangling. Not physical pleasure but a metaphysical jolt, something deeper than flesh or nerves. His soul recoiled, then expanded, fortified as though a new lattice of steel had been woven through it. He gasped against Adam’s mouth, fingers curling hard into the bedspread as the sudden strength coursed through him. 

 

For the first time since arriving in Hell…

 

He felt less fragile.

 

Adam drew back so their lips hovered mere inches apart, licking his lips as though savoring the lingering taste of something exquisite.

 

“There,” he murmured, voice dropping to a purr. “All done. Soul’s tougher now. Bond’ll slide off you like oil on glass.”

 

Alastor breathed unevenly, trying to gather himself - his mind, his dignity and the remnants of his composure. The echo of Adam’s touch still pulsed through his soul in warm, terrifying waves.

 

“Was it worth the kiss?” Adam asked with a smirk.

 

Alastor - lightly trembling - narrowed his eyes. The man’s taste remained upon his lips. 

 

“I suppose I’ll find out,” he said, voice rough around the edges.

 

Adam laughed, uttering his next words directly into Alastor’s ear. 

 

“You will, babe,” he promised. “Oh, you will.”

 

“Adam?” 

 

“Yeah?” 

 

“Please remove your hand from my ass.” 

 

A discontented grumble as a grasping claw retracts with obvious reluctance. 

 

“Fine. Fuckin’ bitch…” 

Chapter 16: 16

Notes:

I do appreciate ya'lls patience going through the early to middling stages of Alastor's life. Once you understand the context, the future conflict between Overlord!Alastor and Vox will make sense considering the true depth of their relationship. Spoilers, I suppose. But I hinted toward Alastor achieving his goals in my initial summary on chapter one. Of course. Once they’re achieved - that’s when the story will really take a turn.

Edit; One thing this fic focuses on - and will continue to focus on - is a form of terror and dread that comes from the concept of ‘gender roles’ and ‘domestic horror’.

This is hell. And Alastor’s torment and respective fate is manufactured specifically around what he escaped from in life. The concept of ‘punishment’ is woven into the narrative in that way. And I’ve noticed some comments have kinda-sorta picked up on it. Which is splendid.

In this realm, there is a certain rigidity in that.

For a visual reference that partly inspired this fic I’d recommend looking up ‘AHS Fiona Goode in Hell’ on YouTube.

He was permitted outside only for the most humiliating of reasons: fittings.
 

A brief, heavily monitored reprieve from his confinement, all so he could be paraded through the threshold of a “charming” bridal establishment that smelled faintly of perfume and powdered sugar. Everything inside gleamed - silk on mannequins, lace draped over polished tables and soft lighting meant to flatter every curve and shadow.

 

It made his stomach twist.

 

Rosie accompanied him, of course. It was tradition, after all. An Omega’s guardian selected their garments, approved their presentation and curated their transformation into an ornament fit for public display. She moved through the shop like she owned it, her heels clicking with that easy authority Alastor had once admired.

 

Now it only made him feel small.

 

There were far too many options. Bolts of fabric in every shade of crimson, cuts designed to flatter soft curves and silhouettes meant to accentuate fragility. The attendants swarmed him like brightly colored birds, fluttering around the raised platform where they made him stand. He was instructed to lift his arms, turn his hips, angle his shoulders this way - no, that way - step into this, hold still, tilt your head and don’t fidget.

 

The doe obeyed, but only mechanically. His movements smooth but empty, his expressions practiced but hollow.

 

Rosie circled the platform with a critical eye, fingers grazing the finely-tailored suit. 

 

“You look lovely, Alastor,” she cooed, clasping her hands together. “You already did, of course. But - my, oh my - Vox is going to fall over himself when he sees you.”

 

He didn’t answer.

 

Instead, he stared at the mirror. At the creature reflected back at him.
 

The suit was exquisite - if one could even call it a suit at all. A hyper-feminized mockery of masculine tailoring. The jacket nipped aggressively at his waist, flaring at the hips in a shape closer to a corseted gown than proper formalwear. The trousers were slim to the point of delicacy, tapered to accentuate the softness of his thighs rather than conceal it. 

 

A sheer lace underlayer peeked from beneath the lapels, cut low enough to reveal the delicate line of his collarbones. His fur had been brushed smooth, his hair arranged in soft curls that framed his face and made his features appear even gentler - like a doll dressed up for an audience.

 

Exactly what they wanted him to be.

 

His smile - his eternal, carved-on smile - remained fixed in place. 

 

But his eyes betrayed him.

They’re flat and utterly devoid of warmth.

 

He watched his reflection and felt nothing but a deep, hollow ache - like staring at a wax figure that bore his shape but none of his substance. A figure meant to be dressed, displayed, photographed and claimed. 

 

A bride.

 

A possession.

 

Rosie touched his arm lightly, unaware - or uncaring - of the quiet horror unfurling beneath his skin.

 

“Chin up, darling,” she said, sweetly. “Weddings are joyous occasions. It’s your special day.”

 

His claws dug into his palms. The tips digging painfully into his flesh.

 

❧

 

Vox insisted on touching him.

 

 Every visit began the same way: a too-warm smile, a searching, hungry gaze and then the soft click of the door being secured behind him by whatever hidden mechanism prevented Alastor from ever seeing the outside unescorted. It was ritualistic in a way, predictable enough to be maddening.

 

 Before Alastor could even greet him, Vox’s hands were already on him, guiding him toward the sofa with a gentleness that felt like velvet stretched over iron. Arms circled his waist, drawing him close so their scents mingled, Vox inhaling deeply as though savoring something he already considered his.

 

There was no need for coyness anymore. Their union had already been consummated in heat and instinct, which Vox treated as a precedent for further intimacy. His touches were casual now, proprietary, as though they’d slipped into a marriage without either of them acknowledging it aloud. 

 

Alastor tolerated it with the ease of a practiced performer, even as his mind wandered to happier memories - bloodier memories, truthfully. It was a pity poison wouldn’t work on Vox. Omegas had a long, storied history of silencing their husbands with beautifully laced meals; the public lovingly dubbed them Belladonnas. Alastor had always admired the elegance of their method, even if he himself preferred the intimacy of a blade and the way a face twisted in perfect, final horror.

 

“Alastor?”

 

“Hm?” He blinked, dragging himself back from the pleasant nostalgia of murder.

 

Vox brushed his thumb against the doe’s cheek, searching his eyes as though he could excavate thoughts from them. “I wanted to ask how your trip into town went. I heard you picked something out.”

 

Picked. How charmingly incorrect. Rosie had made the selections while he stood there like a blank mannequin, nodding when prompted. But voicing that would only earn him more restrictions, so he offered the expected answer. A soft murmur about the outing being fine. About the garment fitting well. About it being… appropriate.

 

Vox lit up at the response - glowing, quite literally. His screen brightened with pleased static and he pulled Alastor a little closer, as though the Omega’s willingness to speak was a sign of progress. Alastor felt his false ease being misinterpreted; Vox saw it as submission softening into contentment, as though the deer were finally starting to “settle” under his gentle, corrective guidance.

 

The Alpha pressed their foreheads together, voice lowering into something that aimed for tender but landed somewhere between patronizing and possessive. He believed that once he marked Alastor properly, everything would fall neatly into place. The Omega would calm and stop resisting all the things that frightened him now. He’d become pliant, affectionate and eager to bear children. 

 

After all, Vox reasoned, that was an Omega’s natural fulfillment. That was biology. That was destiny.

 

“I can’t wait to see you in what you chose,” Vox murmured. “You’ll look perfect, honey. And once the wedding’s done… everything will feel easier. You’ll feel more like yourself.”

 

Yourself. Meaning the version of him Vox had constructed in his head.

 

Vox’s hand drifted down to Alastor’s abdomen in a way that made bile crawl up the deer’s throat. The Alpha wasn’t subtle about his hopes. His fantasies. His plans for the future.

 

“I keep imagining our children,” he confessed, eyes softening with nauseating sincerity. “Little ones with your ears and my smile. Hellborn who could do what neither of us ever could. Who could go beyond Pride. Wherever they wanted. A legacy.”

 

He squeezed Alastor gently, lovingly, as though the doe were already incubating that future.

 

Alastor smiled back with blank eyes. 

 

❧

 

His hooves struck the grimy pavement in a frantic rhythm, sharp clacks swallowed by the din of the city. It happened so fast that he barely registered the moment of opportunity before he seized it. Vox had stepped out of the limousine first, momentarily disappearing into the confines of a luxurious building. The driver, an imp who had grown too accustomed to seeing the docile, subdued version of Alastor, relaxed his guard for half a heartbeat. A single slip. A single lapse.

 

And Alastor was gone.

 

He tore himself out of the backseat with all the pent-up desperation of a cornered animal finally scenting a crack in its cage. His breath came in thin, painful gasps. Uncomfortably constricted by the obscene corset that hugged his ribs. His hands clawed at the long skirt Vox had demanded he wear - omegan and humiliating in every stitched detail - as he bolted across the pavement and ducked into the first alleyway he could find.

 

The moment he was out of sight, he ripped at the blouse. The delicate fabric split easily beneath his claws. Buttons flew. Seams tore apart like paper. He yanked it down his arms and cast it into the filth of the alley floor without a second thought. The corset bit into his waist, a relic of every shitty tradition forced upon those of his designation.

 

That too was cast aside with a terrible ferocity behind each action. 

 

He slammed a palm against the wall, coughing as rain mixed with the sweat of panic. The cold droplets stung against the fur of his exposed torso, chilling him instantly - but he drank the feeling greedily because it wasn’t controlled. It wasn’t curated or chosen for him. It was something wild, something real.

 

“Fuck you, Vox,” he hissed, his voice cracking with strain. 

 

Finally - finally - he could breathe. The kind of breath that rattled free of performance and pretenses. The kind of breath that carried who he truly was beneath the suffocating layers of lace and expectation. He curled his fingers into the skirt next, gathering the heavy fabric in a fist. The thing weighed him down, tripped his steps and tried to pull him back toward the life being forced upon him.

 

He bared his teeth at it and ran anyway.

 

The rain grew heavier. Cold pinpricks drummed into his shoulders and slid down the carved lines of his chest. He didn’t care. Didn’t think. His legs moved before thought could catch up, muscles coiling and releasing as instinct guided him down the dark stretch of alley and out onto the next street.

 

Faces turned as he sprinted past - strangers gawking at the spectacle of a disheveled Omega in a scandalous state of dress tearing through Hell’s grime-stained streets. His scent bled distress, broadcasting his panic into the air whether he wanted it to or not. Heads swiveled. Eyes followed. Some curious, some pitying and others hungry.

 

He kept running.

 

And running.

 

His breath tore raw at his throat. His heart hammered too hard against the bone. Rain plastered his mane against his skull, droplets streaming down his cheeks and jaw like tears he refused to shed.

 

❧

 

“Hey. You alright?”

 

The voice cut through the rain like a knife dragged through silk— husky and unmistakably grounded in the physical world Alastor was trying so desperately to disappear into.

 

He flinched.

 

He hadn’t even realized someone had approached. His focus had been tunneled inward, folded tight around the panic locked in his ribs. He was curled against the damp brick, knees drawn sharply to his chest, the ruined skirt pooling in soggy folds beneath him. The alley itself reeked of stagnant water and rotting trash, muggy with the kind of wet warmth that clung uncomfortably to fur.

 

Slowly his eyes lifted.

 

A Sinner crouched a few feet away, careful not to crowd him. Feline in silhouette. Sharp, triangular ears. A long, sleek tail trailing through the grime behind him. His face was  white, narrow and angular, shadowed by the dim streetlight flickering somewhere above. But it was his scent that reached Alastor first. 

 

Beta.

 

His rigid muscles loosened by a fraction.

 

“Leave me be,” Alastor said, voice flat and scraped thin around the edges. It wasn’t even hostility - just exhaustion given shape.

 

The stranger didn’t back away. But he didn’t press forward either. He just hovered in that careful crouch, claws visible and posture open. Not challenging. Not approaching. Simply existing nearby in the way only Betas could. 

 

“C’mon now,” the Beta murmured, his tone softening further. “It’s alright. I’m not lookin’ to bother you. Seen your type before.” A dry, sympathetic quirk pulled at the corner of his muzzle. “You on the run?”

 

Alastor stiffened.

 

That question was a blade. 

 

His gaze flicked past the feline’s shoulder, scanning the mouth of the alleyway. The blurred silhouettes passing beyond. The possibility of escape. The possibility of being seen. His breath stuttered as he tried to draw a proper inhale; a strange, identifiable constriction binding his lungs. 

 

Suspicion snapped sharply through him, clearing the fog of distress just enough for instinct to kick in.

 

He shifted, the movement small but tense, readying himself to bolt if the stranger made a single wrong move.

 

The Beta noticed.

 

“Easy,” he soothed quickly, palms lifting in a gesture of surrender. “Didn’t mean anything by it. Just… you look like you’ve been through hell. And we’re already in Hell, so that says something.”

 

Alastor stared sharply at him - unblinking, hollow-eyed. A hunted creature perched on the precipice between collapse and violence.

 

He said nothing.

 

The Beta didn’t flinch from the scrutiny. Didn’t leer. Didn’t sniff the air or reach for him in that way Alphas inevitably did. He simply sighed, the sound genuine and weary.

 

“You want me to go,” he said, quietly. “I’ll go.”

 

He rose slowly, giving Alastor every chance to react, watching for even the smallest sign of fear or aggression. The Omega’s claws dug into the ruined skirt, ready to bolt.

 

A small, traitorous part of him - buried deep beneath layers of pride, calculation  and the brittle armor of survival - wanted to call after the Beta. To reach out. To scramble to his knees and drag himself toward the one of the few creatures who hadn’t looked at him like a possession waiting to be reclaimed. To beg for assistance in a way he had never allowed himself to before.

 

But that urge died a quiet, pathetic death the moment it surfaced.

 

To reach out would have meant exposing the raw underbelly of his helplessness. To plead would reduce him to a trembling fawn groveling in the mud - teary-eyed and utterly pitiful. He could already imagine how the words would taste in his mouth. It made something ancient and stubborn inside him clamp shut around his throat.

 

So he said nothing.

 

The feline lingered for one final heartbeat - eyes soft with a sympathy that felt almost alien in this city - before taking another cautious step back. And then another. Alastor’s gaze tracked him instinctively, following the silhouette as it retreated toward the mouth of the alley.

 

Then he was gone.

 

Just like that.

 

Leaving behind the sound of rain.

 

And the echo of Alastor’s silence.

 

He was alone again.

 

Truly alone.

 

A wet shiver crawled down his spine as he pressed tighter against the wall, the cold bricks biting through the damp fur along his back. His breath fogged faintly in the alley’s half-light.

 

❧

 

“Let go of me, you misogynistic, abhorrent - !”

 

“Alastor!”

 

“I hope you choke on those abominable undergarments you delude yourself into thinking I’d wear for you!”

 

“Ala - ”

 

“Fuck you!”

 

He barely made it halfway through the next insult before he was seized by the upper arm and thrown into the back of the limousine he’d only just escaped. His shoulder slammed against the leather seating, pain sparking down the limb Vox had wrenched so violently. His breath hitched, fury sharpening into something feral as he scrambled, trying to twist away.

 

He didn’t get far.

 

Vox descended on him like a storm given shape, the polished projection of his face hardened into something sharp and unyielding. The Alpha’s grip had been merciless in the midst of extraction from the alleyway, fingers having dug into the soft flesh of Alastor’s arm with none of the tenderness he had shown prior. Outside, the imp driver held the door open with a look of pure, bone-deep terror. Fully aware he was witnessing something he should never acknowledge.

 

The door slammed shut behind them with a finality that made Alastor’s gut go cold.

 

His escape was over.

 

“Do you realize,” Vox hissed, leaning in and crowding the Omega without hesitation, “the danger you put yourself in? How many people saw you running around looking the way you did? Like some runaway whore?”

 

The word ‘whore’ was deliberate. A punishment. A caging slur meant to snap him back into line.

 

Alastor’s smile sharpened into a blade.

 

“Jealous, Vincent?” he crooned, voice dripping with venomous sweetness. “I wouldn’t blame anyone for making assumptions about my availability. I’ve always enjoyed an audience. You should know as much.”

 

The flicker of outrage that crossed Vox’s screen was beautiful - too brief to savor, but bright and gratifying. The Alpha reached for him again, claws curling around his wrist, no doubt ready to drag him into submission with brute force.

 

He never made contact.

 

Alastor’s hoof shot forward in a clean, savage kick - slamming dead center into Vox’s screen. The impact left a thin spider-crack skittering across the projection surface. Not enough damage to cripple the tech, but enough to make the image glitch violently. Vox’s voice distorted into a warbling snarl as his sensors scrambled to recalibrate.

 

Alastor didn’t waste the opening. He lunged.

 

For a moment he was the very thing he used to be. A proper predator. A creature meant to be feared. Teeth bared, claws raking across the sleek paneling of Vox’s head, shredding the polished veneer. He sank his nails into metal casings, not caring if it did minimal damage and not caring about consequences. Rage drove him.

 

He managed to get his mouth on Vox’s shoulder, fangs dragging against the synthetic flesh. 

 

And then - 

 

Agony.

 

White, blinding agony.

 

Electricity tore through him in a violent surge, his body arching involuntarily as every muscle seized at once. His breath punched out of him in a strangled cry. His limbs locked, spasming, his claws twitching uselessly against Vox’s chest as the voltage ravaged his nerves.

 

He collapsed backward onto the seat, the air ripped from his lungs in stuttered bursts.

 

Alastor continued to shake violently as Vox’s gaze snapped back into existence, his look harsh and unpitying as the doe struggled to comprehend his agony. 

 

“We’ll be moving up the wedding date,” he announced, flatly. 

Chapter 17: 17

Alastor hadn’t truly been present for his wedding.

 

Not in any way that mattered. His last clear memory was of the morning; a blur of panic and a final desperate attempt to break free of Vox’s control. He remembered the wild, animal rhythm of his hooves as he fled, driven by nothing but instinct and terror - running until his lungs burned and the corset bit deep into his ribs. 

 

Then the wires caught him. They snapped around his limbs, dragging him up by the wrists and ankles until his spine bowed unnaturally. Vox smoothly stepped into his field of vision and Alastor had one heartbeat to recoil as an eye became warped into something resembling a spiraling pattern. 

 

Then - … 

 

Nothing.

 

He opened his eyes to morning.

 

His skull throbbed and his vision swam. His stomach twisted as though something inside him had spoiled. A low, miserable sound escaped before he had any control over it. His pointed tongue felt thick, his mouth tasting of some cloyingly sweet wine he would never have chosen on his own. 

 

The air reeked of sex, heavy and unmistakable. His body ached in ways that made his skin crawl.

 

Another pathetic groan slipped out of him.

 

“Alastor?”

 

Vox’s voice floated through the haze.  Alastor turned his head sluggishly, blinking until the world resolved around the glowing blue frame of the Alpha’s screen.

 

“Vincent?” he managed, the name muffled by the cottony weight of his tongue.

 

He inwardly staggered at the sound of his own voice - pathetically weak and shapeless. Vox moved immediately, kneeling beside him on the mattress to help guide him into a more comfortable position. A clawed hand slid across his back, his touch meant to comfort and soothe. 

 

“You’re just sick from the hypnosis,” Vox murmured. “It’ll fade soon. You were under for quite a while. Your brain is still adjusting.”

 

Alastor curled in on himself, arms wrapping around his torso as a shiver passed through him. The sensation of his own body felt unfamiliar. Like the limbs he boasted belonged to someone else. He squeezed his eyes shut and forced out a quiet, trembling “okay,” because resistance felt impossible in that moment. 

 

Vox’s hand followed the curve of his spine in gentle circles, coaxing his breathing back into rhythm.

 

❧

 

He had never experienced Vox’s full ability before. The aftermath was worse than the blackout. His memories returned in broken, incomprehensible slivers. The wedding itself existed only in photographs and video clips Vox showed him afterward, beaming with pride like a groom eager to relive the magic.

 

Alastor watched the recordings in horrified silence.

 

He saw himself smiling brightly. A perfect Omega hell-bride with an adoring gleam in his eyes. He saw Rosie handing him over as though he were a prized possession, her painted smile radiant with approval. Unfamiliar guests applauded with gusto, all bearing witness to his greatest shame. 

 

It was a nightmare.

 

He stared down now at the ring on his finger. A silver band woven with shimmering red and blue gemstones that glinted under the ambient lights of the penthouse. 

 

He didn’t dare try to pull it off.

 

Shock hollowed him out from the inside, leaving a cavern where his voice should have been. Vox didn’t seem disturbed by his silence; if anything, he treated him with an infuriating level of patience. The lights in the penthouse were dimmed to a gentle glow. His chores were reduced to nothing. A maid delivered his meals with soft steps and softer words in the days that followed.

 

All of it was carefully curated.

 

And all of it designed to ease him into his new role.

 

This was meant to be his new life.

 

Vox called it their “honeymoon period” - a chance for him to rest and adjust at his own pace. Alastor could only stare blankly at the immaculate rooms and at the life he’d been forced into while unconscious. He would not return to the home he’d shared with Niffty. He would never again wake to the quiet rhythm of Cannibal Town or enjoy the small, precious routines he’d carved out over decades of stubborn independence.

 

That life was over.

 

What remained was this.

 

Whatever the fuck this was.

 

The thought alone made him retch.

 

And retch he did - occasionally kneeling over the toilet with violent convulsions as meals he’d forced down made its way back up. His entire frame shook, tears burning at the corners of his eyes. He felt stripped raw from the inside out.

 

A steady hand rubbed circles between his shoulder blades.

 

“It’s alright, sweetheart,” Vox whispered, soothingly. “Let it out. I’ve got you.”

 

Alastor collapsed sideways once the heaving stopped, too exhausted to resist the arms that caught him. Too dazed to fight the gentle pull back into Vox’s embrace.

 

❧

 

Vox had been patient - impeccably so. Almost saintly in his attentiveness. He handled Alastor as though he were spun from brittle glass rather than flesh and bone wrapped around a damned soul. It would have been romantic, perhaps, if it hadn’t involved the slow suffocation of someone stripped of choice.

 

The penthouse was vast enough to be called a home, though Alastor understood immediately that it was a gilded enclosure. A territory meant to keep him in, not welcome him out. The windows stretched from floor to ceiling, showcasing the sprawling hellish skyline. From the sofa where he spent most of his waking hours, the city glowed like a burning wound. 

 

He lounged there now, head resting against a cushion, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. Vox had granted him wine. Not the harder liquor he preferred, but a few glasses of red scattered throughout the day. 

 

“To settle your nerves,” Vox had said.

 

A gentle reminder hung beneath it: You nearly drank yourself into oblivion. We can’t have that again, sweetheart.

 

So Alastor savored what he was given. Not greedily - not in an obvious way, at least. He knew better than to display want too plainly. Instead he swirled each mouthful, watched it coat the inside of the glass like blood and drank with a quiet reverence. It was a ritual that soothed him. 

 

His daily schedule was loose enough to feel benevolent, but tight enough to remind him who dictated the shape of his days. Meals were strict. Breakfast precisely at eight. Lunch at noon. Dinner at six. He did not eat alone - not even once. Vox insisted they dine together, perched across one another at the immaculate kitchen island like a proper couple. 

 

“Shared meals build intimacy,” he’d said.

 

For Alastor, they meant one thing: another sanctioned glass of wine.

 

He hid the flicker of anticipation each time Vox casually uncorked a bottle and prepped the glasses. Obvious eagerness for some a sweet toxin was unbecoming of an Omega, after all. He kept his movements delicate, his gratitude mild and his gaze soft. 

 

Vox seemed pleased. So very pleased.

 

After dinner, they would migrate to the bedroom. Not always for sex - Vox claimed he wanted Alastor “rested,” “comfortable” and “settled in their new life.” Often, the Alpha simply wanted the Omega beside him. He wanted  Alastor to willingly curl against his chest while he stroked his hair and whispered sweet assurances against his temple.

 

Alastor complied, of course. 

 

He minded his husband. Just as good Omegas were expected to. He kept his voice soft and his smiles convincingly warm. A slow, subtle easing into the role that Vox must have believed was progress. As if Alastor were gradually settling into place and  adjusting as nature intended.

 

❧

 

They were having guests.

 

Vox announced it with the kind of restrained excitement he reserved for business dealings he genuinely looked forward to. A merger, he’d said - mutually beneficial, which in Vox’s vocabulary meant there would be no bloodshed. Only signatures and champagne. As he spoke, Alastor slipped the man’s suit jacket from his shoulders with practiced automaticity. His claws moved with precision, hanging the garment neatly over his arm while Vox gestured animatedly with his free hand.

 

Alastor nodded at the appropriate places. Made small hums to show he was listening. Forced his body to remain present even as his mind drifted in soft, dissociative waves. Guests meant distraction. Faces he did not know. A change in the suffocating rhythm of days that blurred endlessly together. It would be a relief - however brief - to not drown solely in Vox’s attention.

 

He had been allowed out recently, though always under supervision. Polite outings arranged like curated displays: tea with Niffty and Rosie under watchful eyes, brief strolls through managed streets so he could “get some fresh air,” dinners in opulent restaurants filled with Overlords and high-ranking Alphas and Betas. Vox never drifted far from his side. Never let go of his hand for more than a breath.

 

His wardrobe had changed, too. Vox liked them coordinated - the red to his blue. Softness to his sharpness. Feminine lines to highlight the masculinity of his own silhouette. A living contrast. A matched set. Alastor was expected to embody the Omega ideal standing at the Alpha’s side, and so the closets swelled with delicate suits tailored just to emphasize his narrow waist, his long legs, his exotic fur and hooves.

 

And naturally, so came the vanity.

 

A towering structure of polished glass and lacquered wood, filled with creams, powders, brushes, perfumes - everything an obedient Omega might need to maintain a flawless domestic image. At first he’d only stared at it, mildly horrified. Then the lessons began.

 

A tutor had been hired. A stern, humorless imp with hair pulled so tightly that it made her temples glow. She taught him how to starch collars. How to pleat a bedsheet. The correct angle to fold towels. The proper way to mend a hem. The subtleties of makeup application to keep his appearance “fresh” even after hours of housework.

 

Because the maid was being phased out.

 

Alastor was expected to take her place.

 

To prepare the meals.

Scrub the floors.

Wash and iron the clothes.

Dust every corner.

Polish the furniture.

Maintain the penthouse as a pristine reflection of Vox’s status.

 

He felt a strange tightness in his chest every time he picked up a broom. 

 

He was suffocating and yet expected to smile prettily as he drowned.

 

❧

 

He felt like he loved Vox.

 

Occasionally.

 

Maybe. 

 

Not in the real sense. Not in the free sense. But in the warped, sickly way proximity can distort anything. Vox cared for him. Truly cared. He doted. Hovered. Ensured Alastor never wanted for anything - except freedom.

 

He gave gifts. Thoughtful ones. Personalized. Things only someone who studied him obsessively could have known he liked.

 

When Vox had presented him with a vintage-style radio - sleek, elegant and reminiscent of the exact era Alastor had died in - something small and rotten inside him had twisted. The kind of twisting that felt dangerously close to warmth.

 

“I thought you’d like it,” Vox had said, smiling sheepishly and placing the radio into his hands as if offering a piece of his own heart.

 

Sometimes Alastor looked into those glowing blue eyes and saw sincerity. Worship. A love so earnest it made something in the Omega shrivel up in confusion and disgust. And yet, some traitorous part of him curled toward it like moth to flame. Because it was easier to lie back and play the role fate had written for him. Even if for a moment. 

 

So he turned on the radio as he dusted his husband’s immaculate home for the umpteenth time. Committing to the repetitive motion.
 

Jazz crackled through the penthouse.

An achingly familiar sound. 

 

And Alastor, for a fleeting moment, almost pretended he wasn’t suffocating.

❧

 

“Ah, the photographs and videos don’t compare to witnessing such beauty in person.”

 

Alastor felt the familiar brush of lips against his knuckles - soft and lingering a moment longer than politeness allowed. The Sinner before him was tall and willowy, his presence decadent in a way that was unmistakably indulgent. Valentino’s elaborate attire gleamed under the penthouse lights, every stitch calculated to impress. His scent - a saccharine, intoxicating sweetness - curled in the air like a hook.

 

“I’m flattered,” Alastor replied, his tone silky and controlled; the perfect hostess’ mask slipping effortlessly into place.

 

He had been made presentable. Vox insisted upon it. The blouse was soft, the flared trousers elegant, the ruffled neckline chosen specifically to frame his markless throat like an invitation. His mane had been brushed into obedient perfection. A dusting of powder softened his features. 

 

“What a lovely bella you have, Vox,” Valentino crooned, voice rolling like warm smoke. “You really should show him off more.”

 

Valentino’s hand lingered - far too long - gloved fingers stroking along the inside of Alastor’s palm as though appraising texture and temperature. Alastor’s smile remained, but a fine strain pulled at its edges. Only when Valentino finally released him did the tension ease from his knuckles.

 

“Isn’t he?” Vox answered, pride winding through his voice like a ribbon. The Alpha slid an arm around Alastor’s waist, fingers settling with unerring familiarity against the curve of his hip. “He’s quite the cook.”

 

“Is that what I smell?” Valentino inhaled, dramatically. “I half assumed you’d had something decadent catered. But homemade? Delectable.”

 

Vox’s attention shifted to the silent, shapely figure at Valentino’s side. “And this must be the famous Angel Dust. Even lovelier in person.”

 

Angel Dust’s smile was practiced and pretty. An expression Alastor recognized all too well in Omegas who were owned. Vox took the spider’s hand and kissed it with an unnecessary ceremony, mimicking Valentino’s earlier gesture.

 

“Well!” Valentino clapped his hands lightly. “We shouldn’t let good food go cold. Vox, mi amigo, we have so much to discuss.”

 

“Indeed.”

 

Hospitality performed, the procession moved toward the island table. Vox had wanted a spread that impressed - something decidedly  authentic - and so Alastor had spent hours cooking. Stirring simmering pots, seasoning carefully, tasting, adjusting and perfecting each dish. By the time Valentino approached, the air was fragrant with spice and warmth.

 

Jambalaya, black-eyed peas, roasted potatoes, hot bread - traditional dishes laid out with meticulous care. Valentino’s bespectacled eyes lit up as he surveyed the offerings, a delighted smile creeping across his painted lips.

 

Once seated, Alastor poured the drinks and settled at Vox’s side, mirroring Angel Dust across the table. Valentino and Vox eased into conversation with practiced ease, discussing their merger at length and with enthusiasm. 

 

Angel Dust and Alastor remained silent for the length of the discussions. Neither were invited to speak. 

 

Alastor lifted his wine glass with a measured grace, sipping slowly and letting the alcohol bloom warm in his chest. The flavors of his own cooking danced upon his tongue, his eyes shutting momentarily to emerge himself in the depths of his earlier memories.

 

He scarcely noticed how Angel’s gaze lingered upon him.

 

❧

 

They worked in quiet synchronicity at the sink, as though they'd done this dance a hundred times before. Hot water hissed over porcelain; dishes clinked softly; the scent of soap mingled with the fading aroma of jambalaya. Behind them, Valentino and Vox were loud with drink - full-bodied laughter and the exaggerated bravado of satisfied Alphas.

 

Angel Dust nudged a plate toward Alastor with an elbow, not looking at him directly - just enough to pass as casual.

 

“So,” he murmured, tone light enough to be mistaken for idle chitchat, “how's married life? You havin’ a grand ol’ time playin’ ‘Mrs. Vox’?”

 

Alastor’s hands paused for the briefest flicker. He turned his head just slightly, enough to meet Angel’s eye. 

 

“Oh, yes. It’s been grand,” he said, smoothly. “Positively delightful.”

 

Angel snorted under his breath, the sound tiny enough to vanish into the running water. He passed Alastor a dish to dry. 

 

“Sure. ‘Delightful’,” Angel said. “You’ll… adjust. Valentino ain’t always easy. But he has his moments.” A shrug. “Vox doesn’t seem like the worst of ’em.”

 

Alastor dried the plate with slow precision. “Adjust to what, exactly?”

 

He already knew the answer. But he wanted to hear it spoken by someone who lived it. Someone who understood.

 

Angel kept his gaze on the sink, his expression bland. Anyone watching would assume he was gossiping about nothing at all.

 

“Life as a kept Omega,” he murmured. “It’s a dance, sugar. A real fucked-up one.”

 

Their hands moved in tandem, a mechanical rhythm masking the real conversation.

 

“You learn the steps,” Angel continued. “Learn when to spin. When to stumble on purpose. When to let ’em think they’re leadin’.”

 

Alastor visibly paused. He is suddenly reminded of the ballroom. Of his dance with Vox and how he led him with the illusion of the opposite. 

 

Angel lowered his voice to a barely audible thread. Just enough to reach Alastor’s ears, lost beneath the roar of Valentino’s laughter.

 

“And once they think you’re predictable?”

A small smile tugged at the spider’s lips.

“You can start makin’ your own steps. Quiet ones. Adjustments no Alpha ever notices.”

 

The doe’s fingers tightened ever so slightly on the towel.

 

Angel’s lashes flicked up. 

 

“Play the part,” Angel whispered. “Make ’em comfortable. Make ’em sloppy. Let ’em think they got you pegged. That’s when you really start survivin’.”

 

He nudged another dish toward Alastor, smiling lazily. 

 

“All ya gotta do…?”

A soft clink of ceramic.

“... is play the long game.”

 

The deer’s eyes flash with a formerly smothered light. 

Chapter 18: 18

His life slipped into a pattern so smooth and suffocating it felt preordained. It crushed him beneath its weight, yes, but it also granted him space to think. 

 

Fifty years.

 

That number beat like a pulse behind his eyes. A half century before the boon would rot; before his soul softened enough for Vox’s future bond to seep into its cracks, rewriting him from the inside out. Fifty years until the edges of his thoughts dulled and until the small, shameful thread of affection he sometimes felt for Vox calcified into devotion.

 

 Fifty years until whatever made him Alastor slipped into syrupy compliance.

 

The moment Adam had hungrily  pressed their mouths together his fate had begun ticking down. The kiss was not just a kiss but a contract; his tongue pinned beneath another’s, his body held in a posture of surrender. A reminder of his station. His nature. And his role in this hellish world.

 

That he was meant to be ruled.

 

The boon was a miracle disguised as degradation. He clung to it with desperation. Lucifer - by way of his foul-mouthed emissary - had given him a small shield. He intended to wield it.

 

The first priority was simple;  he would not get pregnant.

 

Pregnancy was the executioner’s rope tied neatly around an Omega’s throat. A biological shackle that tightened every instinct and served as an effective distraction. It was the cleanest way to destroy him. And Vox would do everything in his power to see their union “bear fruit.” He always behaved as though their future children already existed, waiting patiently in the wings.

 

Every fuck during those few heat-addled days were a coin toss.

 

Every cycle was a loaded gun.

 

Those nights spent beneath Vox’s body a risk of annihilation.

 

He had to find a way to shut his body down. To render himself incapable of carrying anything. Contraceptives existed in Hell, but they were monitored and almost always in the hands of Alphas.

 

But Alastor had something most didn’t. 

 

He had an ally.

 

A friend.

❧

 

Angel Dust was a curiosity - an Omega who had learned to weaponize his respective constraints. A sex worker favored by Valentino, permitted to entertain only Betas and kept like a caged songbird draped in silk and diamonds. He suffered in ways similar to Alastor, but somehow managed to live lavishly in spite of those constraints. 

 

Or perhaps because of how skillfully he played within them.

 

Angel Dust was loved by the public. Favored by his owner. Endlessly useful. And sharp as a razor.

 

It was easy to like him.

 

Easier still to respect him.

 

They formed their friendship in stolen hours - lounging across the plush sofas of Alastor’s home, their legs curled upon the soft material as they sipped wine and traded stories. Angel brought the laughter. Alastor brought the cutting wit. 

 

Angel Dust understood the rules of their biology in a way Alastor respected. He moved through rooms like a weapon. His scent was a lure, his voice a tool. He made men and women kneel without lifting a single delicate finger.

 

“That body of yours is a weapon, Alastor,” Angel said one late evening, swirling his wine with the practiced elegance of a courtesan. “You’re smart. You already know that. It’s all we’ve got. All Hell’s lettin’ us keep. So use it. And keep usin’ it.”

 

Their glasses chimed gently. A soft little toast to survival.

 

Alastor stared into his wine - one of the glasses Vox allowed him - and watched the liquid swirl. The taste was pleasant enough. But it didn’t warm him the way whiskey had. Didn’t quiet the invasive thoughts. Didn’t drown the dread. It only dampened the worry. 

 

Still… it was something.

 

He lifted it delicately and took a slow, contemplative sip. Letting the warmth spread as it settled within his belly. 

 

Angel Dust leaned back, one leg draped over the other, smiling with that knowing softness Omegas saved only for their own kind.

 

“We’re gonna get you through this, sugar,” he said. “One way or another.”

❧

 

It took time - days of idle chatter, weeks of shared wine and months of letting Angel Dust read between the lines - but eventually Alastor managed to steer their conversations toward the subject he needed most. Contraceptives. That forbidden, precious lifeline hidden within Hell’s highest strata.

 

They existed, of course. Omegas with wealthy mates used them freely. Upper-ring brothels stocked them out of necessity. But the means of acquiring them was another matter entirely. Production was limited. Distribution was tightly monitored. And access rested almost exclusively in the hands of Alphas.

 

It was disgusting, really, how neatly the system reinforced itself.

 

Still, he remembered them from life. Small, chalky pills that tasted like stale bitterness. They dulled instinct, quieted the body and prevented cycles from turning into children. They had worked beautifully when they had been utilized to dull his prior heat. And Alastor had clung to that memory now like a lifeline.

 

Angel Dust noticed his shift in interest with remarkable speed.

 

They sat curled together on Alastor’s sofa, wine glasses in hand, the faint hum of the penthouse’s hidden electronics thrumming beneath the floorboards. They were “alone,” but both Omegas knew better. Vox’s home did not permit privacy - only the illusion of it.

 

Angel tilted his head, lashes lowering as he caught the subtle strain in Alastor’s tone and the way his eyes lingered a beat too long on a passing mention of heat cycles or domestic expectations. The spider’s expression finally softened with understanding.

 

But he didn’t acknowledge it directly - not here.

Not with the walls listening.

 

Instead he leaned close, adopting that coy, salacious tone Omega courtesans used when telling a scandalous bedroom story. Something vulgar enough to distract and harmless enough to dismiss. His voice dropped into a whisper brightened by false humor.

 

“I know a guy,” Angel said, smirking like he was about to describe a lover’s technique rather than a lifeline. “Real hush-hush. Valentino’s got… connections. Some of the other girls also pick up extra supplies to prevent any oopsies with their Alpha clients. I could snag somethin’ along the way. Help ya out. Ain’t nothin’ to swipe a pill or two.”

 

To anyone listening, it sounded like incomprehensible  filth - like gossip. The volume too low to pick up the words. 

To Alastor, it was salvation being offered. 

 

A surge of relief slammed into him so hard he nearly cracked his glass in his grip. But he forced himself still, forced his breath even and forced his face to hold the lazy, indulgent amusement expected of a pampered Omega sharing “naughty secrets” over wine.

 

He mirrored Angel Dust perfectly - tilting his head, lowering his voice and letting a little teasing lilt coat his syllables.

 

“Mm,” he murmured. “Now that would be very much appreciated, my dear. A little supply of my very own - carefully tucked away out of sight and out of the minds of those who need not be concerned.”

 

Angel tittered - a bright, airy giggle so flawlessly performed it could have fooled even the sharpest of Overlords. To a recording device, it meant nothing. To Alastor, it was a promise.

 

A secret pact made between caged creatures.

 

Angel leaned in, brushing their shoulders together as though sharing another sinful joke. 

 

“Just say the word, sugar,” he murmured, softly. “And I’ll make sure you stay as pretty and un-knocked-up as the day ya died.”

 

Alastor released a quiet laugh. Light and airy. Convincingly thoughtless in quality. 

 

And played along.

 

❧

 

His cycle loomed several months ahead, an inevitability marked in immaculate blue ink upon the calendar mounted on their kitchen wall. 

 

Vox crossed off each day with the quiet satisfaction. 

 

Alastor often caught him drifting through the unused rooms – those wide, echoing spaces he clearly imagined filled with soft pastels and plush furniture. The Alpha’s excitement was palpable. 

 

Meals followed their usual rhythm: Vox’s business ventures, the newest mergers and the small victories and growing empire. But he always took time to inquire about Alastor’s day. Alastor had - as far as Vox could see - blossomed into the ideal homemaker. The penthouse gleamed. His attire was always pressed and impeccable. Meals were carefully seasoned, beautifully plated and served with a smile that Vox read as contentment. 

 

A dream on the cusp of solidifying into reality. 

 

Once a child filled Alastor’s arms, the dream would no longer be just that. 

 

Alastor took a delicate sip of his wine, savoring its warmth before letting his expression brighten with a carefully practiced spark of inspiration.

 

“I was pondering that lovely little idea you mentioned,” he began, voice light. “The one about hosting a radio program. The thought’s been dancing around in my head ever since.”

 

Vox made a thoughtful hum, attention sharpening in a way that encouraged Alastor to continue.

 

“I do think it would be marvelous, Vincent.” The doe leaned forward, eyes warm with sincerity. “A charming hobby - nothing too demanding. Something to engage my mind, keep me vibrant. A cheerful voice on the airwaves.”

 

He watched Vox’s expression with carefully measured anticipation. There was a momentary pause and then - 

 

“That sounds like a wonderful idea, love,” Vox said at last, smiling with genuine pleasure. “We’ve needed someone lively and appealing on-air. Someone with personality.”

 

Alastor’s face lit up beautifully - ears tilted upright, eyes shining, lips lifting into a bright and delighted grin. 

 

“Oh, Vincent, you’re truly too kind - ”

 

“But,” Vox added smoothly, pointedly interrupting his wife. 

 

Alastor’s shoulders dipped -  just a fraction -  before he offered a small nod of graceful acquiescence. 

 

“Of course, Vincent. I’m all ears.”

 

He took another sip of wine to steady his nerves. The taste was familiar, grounding and a reminder of the careful balance he needed to maintain.

 

“I want you working no more than two… perhaps three hours a day,” Vox said. “A hobby - nothing more. I don’t want you exhausting yourself or becoming distracted. Your focus should be…” His smile softened. “Elsewhere.”

 

Elsewhere. 

 

Alastor did not falter. He let none of that inner ache show. Instead he widened his smile and reached across the table to place a clawed hand atop Vox’s.

 

“Of course, Vincent. I understand perfectly.”

A flutter of lashes. A slight leaning forward that conveyed warmth and appreciation in equal measure. 

 

 “Thank you. Truly. You’re wonderfully thoughtful.”

 

❧

 

Those precious little pills were passed with a conspirator’s grace. Angel Dust never made a show of it. The exchanges happened in casual motions, never lingering long enough to draw suspicion. A pill slipped from the seam of a sleeve, pinched between two spindly fingers as though he were merely plucking lint. 

 

Another pulled from the deep fluff of his chest fur with a theatrical flourish that masked its significance. Sometimes from the line of a stocking. Sometimes beneath a frill. Always hidden in plain sight. Always done with an easy smile.

 

Alastor accepted them with the same calm artistry, fingers closing around each one with careful nonchalance. One by one, little pieces of salvation accumulated in his possession. He never kept them all in one place - that would have been foolish beyond measure. Instead he scattered them across the penthouse like breadcrumbs of rebellion. 

 

Small caches hidden in places Vox would never examine with intention: slipped between the pages of a dull book he pretended to enjoy, tucked into the lining of a decorative pillow or even wedged behind the dusty base of an unused lamp. Innocuous spots. Nothing secretive enough to arouse curiosity nor anything valuable enough to invite scrutiny.

 

He reminded himself constantly where each one was kept; reciting it mentally like a matra. Every exchange with Angel Dust made his pulse spike. Each time the spider left, Alastor braced for discovery - for Vox to appear in the doorway with that charming, terrible smile upon his flat face and a quiet question as he loomed over him: What did Angel give you?

 

He feared Valentino might know. Feared the cameras might catch something. Feared the wrong maid might overhear the wrong tone.

 

But no one said a word.
 

No alarms were raised.
 

No suspicion, no inquiry and no sign that his small act of treason had been noticed.

 

The relief was dizzying.

 

Those tiny pills were a quiet declaration of ownership over his own body. A quiet refusal. A whispered promise that motherhood would not be forced upon him like another lock on his gilded cage.

 

If he stretched his supply he could last for years. Perhaps decades, if he was clever. And he was clever. Vox would eventually notice, of course; the man was many things, but not oblivious. But suspicion was not proof and Alastor planned to give him nothing concrete to grasp at. 

 

He practiced shy smiles when Vox spoke of nurseries. He made soft, thoughtful noises when the Alpha mused about names. He folded blankets with delicate care, as though preparing for something he quietly accepted. He feigned contemplation. He feigned softness.

 

And Vox, blinded by hope and love and ego, mistook it for progress.

 

Still… the dream returned sometimes. That horrible vision of domestic bliss. A kitchen bathed in warm light, the scent of breakfast and the tug of a child calling him maman. A swollen belly beneath his hands. A portrait hung proudly on the wall depicting a family that he didn’t want. 

 

Something bright and soft and feverish; a nightmare dressed in beautiful lace.

 

It lingered behind his eyes, refusing to fade.

 

And beneath it all - wrapped in fear and fury and determination -  Alastor clung to his small rebellion. 

 

Those tiny pills hidden throughout the penthouse like seeds. 

 

❧

 

Life leading up to his next cycle wasn’t terrible.  That alone eased the tight coil of panic that had lived in his chest for months. His days fell into a predictable rhythm and predictability was a balm he clutched like a lifeline. He rose, ate, cleaned, served and smiled. He played the part of the well-kept Omega with such delicate precision that Vox relaxed his guard. 

 

Just enough. Just a hair.

 

And with that sliver of freedom came a miracle. 

 

He returned to the radio booth.

 

How blissful it was to slip back into that cramped little room with freshly refurbished equipment prepped to greet him. To lower himself into a comfortable seat, flick the mic on and feel the warm thrumming hum bloom through his bones. Speaking into that microphone, he rediscovered a joy he’d thought death had stripped from him. 

 

His voice rose bright and sharp and mischievous. He slipped back into the role as though he’d merely stepped out for a moment - not for decades.

 

The formerly incredulous staff became startled witnesses to his resurgence. He wove banter with practiced ease, his humor smooth as honey and twice as intoxicating. His timing was effortless. His charm was undeniable. Within days, he had callers. Within weeks, he had a following.

 

Listeners adored him.

 

And Vox… Vox was astonished. The Overlord had expected a hobbyist’s effort - something quaint and sweet and small. Instead, Alastor carved out a space of his own, commanding the airwaves with confidence that undercut the narrative of frailty Vox insisted upon.

 

The radio and the television - paired and contrasted - became Hell’s favorite joke and its favorite novelty. Vox’s Omega, the little red darling, taking the industry by storm. They found it adorable. 

 

And Alastor?

He found the attention intoxicating.

 

It was small, but it was his.

 

As he rode that momentum home one evening, Rosie’s voice slithered back from memory. Her tone that day had shifted into something almost ceremonial, as though reciting scripture.

 

“Omegas,” she had lectured, “were sculpted by divine design to serve as companions. To provide comfort and continuation. You are creatures best seen and rarely heard.”

 

She had said it with such certainty and such gentle pity.

 

And Alastor had bowed his head as expected and submitted to her judgement - her outright denial of his potential.

 

But remembering it now, he felt a dark, warm bloom of satisfaction unfurl in his chest.

 

Rarely heard, she’d said.

 

And yet Hell listened to him every afternoon.

Chapter 19: 19

The pill protected him for a full cycle. 

 

It should protect him for a full cycle. 

 

One small disc of bitter salvation meant an entire month’s safety - as long as he took it a few days before his menses. Alastor had marked the timing with the same precision he once used for plotting murders, but the sight of the calendar still unsettled him. 

 

The red-tipped days loomed like execution dates; each crossed square felt like the slow drum of marching boots. A countdown to a sentencing. 

 

He took the pill the moment Vox left. The Alpha had pressed a cheerful kiss to his cheek before departing, humming about meetings and a “very special weekend.” His screen flickered with warm anticipation - anticipation for the bond and for the moment Alastor’s vulnerability would be weaponized into permanence. 

 

A clean imprint of possession carved into his core. A mark that, once set in a body softened by heat, would let Vox’s voice slip through him like a hook through silk.

 

For an Alpha, it promised a proper union. 

 

For an Omega, it meant unraveling. Instincts turning in on themselves like a strangling vine.

 

Alastor refused to accept that fate.

 

The boon should help him. Would help him.

He kept his expression soft and serene as he prepared his hair at the vanity. His reflection bent slightly as he leaned in… and discreetly slipped the pill into his mouth. A mere flick of fingers, barely a breath’s worth of movement. He swallowed it dry, letting the bitterness cling to his tongue as it slipped.

 

He’d take a small sip of the half-finished glass of wine he had poured during breakfast. 

 

He welcomed the brief numbness as it slipped down his gullet. 

❧

Vox kept his distance this time.

 

After Alastor’s previous outburst during the start of his cycle, the Alpha seemed to finally understand that encroaching on him during the bleeding phase was not only foolish but dangerous. 

 

They slept separately now. 

 

When the first rush of warmth bloomed between his thighs, Alastor sagged in muted relief that the penthouse was empty. No screen hovering at the door. No soothing voice attempting to comfort him. He endured it alone.

 

The ache, the irritability, the rawness in body and mind… none of it was eased by solitude, but at least he didn’t have to perform.

 

He drank more than he should have. 

 

Cup after cup, savoring the dull heat that spread lazily through his limbs as he swayed upon his hooves. The reprimand would come eventually, but he didn’t care. The wine eased the cramps gnawing at his belly, softened the ache in his back and blunted the irritation simmering just beneath his skin.

 

The flow was moderate. Thicker than he liked, but tolerable. Blood clung stubbornly to his fur, staining the inner curve of his thighs in streaks that smelled metallic and humiliating. He washed himself morning and night, scrubbing until the water ran clear and his skin beneath the fur throbbed from the friction.

 

It was a miserable business, as always.

But this time he could endure it with a secret sense of victory.

And for now… that was enough.

 

❧

 

As the sharp, twisting pain finally began to ebb, something new crept in. Slow at first. A sweetness unfurled inside him, spreading from the base of his spine to his belly in soft, molten waves. His muscles unclenched one by one, his breath stuttering as the familiar heat settled into his bones.

 

He tried to hold onto his worries. 

 

To grip them like a lifeline. His mind circled the same frantic question:

 

Would the pill work?

 

Would that bitter little disc truly be enough to keep his body from surrendering to instinct? Would those chemicals really stifle the ancient machinery of his flesh? Prevent the cycle from becoming feast and trap, from coaxing his womb open?

 

He repeated the doubt like a mantra.

 

Would it work? Would it work? Would it work - 

 

But the heat swelled, thick and syrupy, drowning the edges of his thoughts. His skin felt too warm and sensitive beneath his fur. His thighs pressed together instinctively, the slightest shift sending an involuntary shiver up his spine. 

 

His breath grew shallow. The room dimmed around him. The ache between his legs, once a dull warning, blossomed into a deep, insistent throb.

 

His anxiety clung stubbornly for another moment. It was one last frantic flutter of rationality.

 

And then the haze swept over him completely.

 

That soft, treacherous pleasure carved its way through every corner of his mind, smoothing sharp thoughts into gentle curves. The fear didn’t vanish - but it became muffled under the hormonal tide. His heart beat hard against his ribs, not from panic but from a need his body insisted upon with humiliating clarity.

 

The concern remained, a whisper beneath the roar of instinct.

 

Would the pill hold?

 

He couldn’t think clearly anymore. The haze wouldn’t allow it. It wrapped around his mind like velvet, coaxing him to surrender.

 

❧

 

Alastor had only been dozing - hovering at the edge of sleep, wrapped in a haze that softened every thought and slowed every breath. Heat made his skin feel too warm beneath his fur, every inch of him humming with a deep, instinctive ache.

 

 He lay sprawled across the sheets - bare and restless -  chasing relief in little shifts of his hips and shallow breaths that did nothing to cool him. His scent hung thick in the air, heavy with sweetness and spice. 

 

The soft creak of the bedroom door made his ears twitch.

 

Vox stepped inside with deliberate care, as though approaching a wild creature prone to lashing out. But the moment the scent hit him, his expression transformed. Tentative restraint melted into an eager, burning brightness. He was visibly excited. 

 

Alastor pushed himself onto his elbows, slow and languid. He looked back over his shoulder, pupils wide and shining and his breath deep and slow. His body shifted in a small, instinctual movement - one he would have never consciously allowed if he were in his right mind. 

 

His tail gave a soft, playful flick; drawing unignorable attention to the curve of his rear and the sheen of arousal that clung to his thighs. The scent in the air deepened, thickening like syrup, making even his own head spin.

 

Vox stripped quickly - not gracefully, but with a near-frantic urgency - and the weight of his body settled over Alastor’s back, warm and solid and utterly certain in its dominance. 

 

The blunt head of the Alpha’s cock teased down the slick seam of his cunt, gliding over folds made pliant by instinct and need. Strong hands repositioned him with practiced ease, lifting his hips, spreading his legs and arranging him into an offering he could not deny. 

 

A beast in heat. A trembling, eager creature meant to be mounted.

 

And Vox reveled in it.

 

Sex between them had always been serviceable. Alastor had tolerated it, performed when required and given Vox enough to satisfy his ego without ever surrendering anything of himself. There had always been distance, a cool detachment behind those eyes. 

 

Vox had learned to pull him out with force - harsh thrusts, demanding touches and some well-timed strike of pleasure that snapped him briefly into the present.

 

But this… this was different. This version of Alastor was soft and pliant, instinct-washed and trembling with an unsurpressed want. 

 

“I love you, Alastor,” Vox murmured, voice transforming into a low, vibrating growl as he pushed inside. “So much.”

 

Alastor’s breath hitched. His back arched beautifully. A helpless sound slipped from him.

 

“Vincent…”

 

The name left him sweetly, warmly and Vox seemed to glow at the sound.

 

❧

Later, Vox rested against the headboard, watching with unabashed hunger as Alastor rode him. His claws gripped the Alpha’s shoulders for balance, his body rising and sinking in smooth, shuddery motions that made slick sounds against the sheets. Vox guided him with slow squeezes of his hips, savoring every tremor in the Omega’s thighs as pleasure overtook him.

 

Vox’s gaze drifted to his neck - the soft column exposed in each backward lean, glistening faintly with heat. His instinct sharpened there, teeth aching with the need to claim and to end any ambiguity forever. 

 

It was the perfect moment. The second day. The scent at its peak, practically clinging to Vox’s tongue each time he breathed in.

 

Without warning, Vox dragged him close.

 

Alastor startled with a small gasp, inches from climax, his cunt squeezing down around the thick length inside him. And then Vox struck. His teeth sank into Alastor’s neck with a force that wiped thought clean from his mind.

 

The scream that tore from Alastor’s throat was wild - split between pleasure and agonizing pain as his orgasm broke violently through him. His entire body convulsed, locked in a trembling arc while Vox held him pinned, keeping him flush and unmoving as thick, heavy waves of seed emptied deep inside him. 

 

It felt endless. 

 

Vox licked at the wound with warm, glowing saliva, sealing the bite as Alastor collapsed backward. Vox followed his fall without letting their bodies separate, as though refusing to give an inch of space. 

Tears streamed freely down the Omega’s face, his body shaking with the aftershocks of overstimulation and the piercing burn of the mark.

 

The Alpha naturally assumes it’s entirely due to discomfort.

 

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Vox murmured, stroking his cheek with tender claws. “I know it hurts. I know.”

 

The soothing tone only made the tears fall harder.

 

❧

 

Afterward, Vox tended to him with an unsettlingly soft devotion. He cleaned his body with warm cloths, whispering gentle reassurance as if the tenderness could erase the brutality. He changed the sheets, dressed the wound and wrapped his neck in fresh white bandages that he checked with obsessive frequency.

 

Alastor drifted through the days that followed in a fog. His body was sore everywhere, pulsing with a phantom ache. His mind was tender and loose. Thoughts slipping in and out like they were dripping through cracks in his skull. 

 

Vox coaxed him into eating soft foods, small bites taken under the warm weight of the Alpha’s praise. He encouraged rest, dimmed the lights and  provided comfort with a confidence that made Alastor feel sick to his core as clarity gradually returned to him. 

 

At some point, through the haze, the bone-deep truth settled:

 

He was marked.

Vox’s voice lilted with real satisfaction when he said it:

 

“You’re mine now.”

 

❧

 

Alastor blinked at his reflection. The wound had healed quickly, leaving behind a clean, unmistakable mark etched into the curve of his neck. A claim visible from across a room. 

 

He is suddenly reminded of the Omegas that had crowded around him in the Morningstar Castle. Their marks visible. 

 

And now he boasted his very own brand. 

 

He lifted his hand and let his claws drift over the scarred skin with cautious delicacy, tracing the raised edges and experiencing the faint throb of lingering tenderness. It was still warm beneath his touch, as if Vox’s teeth had only just left him.

 

His palm shifted downward, settling over the flat plane of his belly. He held it there and pressed lightly. The bitter memory of the pill returned, sharp and metallic upon his tongue. 

 

It will hold, he told himself.

 

He convinced himself of this fact.

 

His fingers curled slightly, gripping the thin fabric covering his abdomen.

 

He didn’t hear Vox right away. Only when broad hands slid over his shoulders did he still. His reflection shifted as Vox stepped closer, looming over him with that quiet, overwhelming presence that now felt amplified in the aftermath of the claim. The Alpha’s projected face appeared just beside his own in the mirror, smiling with unmistakable pride. 

 

He is reminded of the portrait. Of that portrait that persisted within the realm of nightmarish fantasy. 

 

“Look at you,” Vox murmured, his voice a low hum. “Perfect.”

 

Alastor’s stomach twisted.

 

He forced his expression to soften, drawing the edges of his smile into something that passed as fondness. He lifted his gaze to meet Vox’s through the mirror. His eyes gleamed with the practiced sweetness he had learned to weaponize long before his death.

 

“Vincent,” he replied, his tone airy. “You always say the kindest things.”

 

Vox’s hands tightened fractionally on his shoulders, pleased. 

 

Alastor kept smiling.

 

Because the pill would hold.

 

Or -...

He didn’t let himself finish the thought.

 

He simply leaned into Vox’s touch with a show of open relish. 

 

“Shall we get you dressed for the day?” Vox asked, softly.

 

Alastor nodded.

Chapter 20: 20

He feared that the boon had been a joke. 

 

A cruel, cosmic prank laid at his feet by a King who amused himself with dangling false hope. Lucifer was a liar by legend, a trickster by nature and the architect of endless bargains that unraveled precisely when one dared to rely on them. 

 

And so every single morning, Alastor woke with the terror that he had been played for a fool. That the supposed safeguard woven into his soul was nothing more than a whispered dream offered by an indifferent god.

 

Those thoughts haunted him.

After each interaction with Vox - every sweet word he returned and every obedient gesture - he retreated into himself, dissecting the moment. Was that him? Was it genuine? Had a thread of the bond tugged him? Had something within him tilted and softened in ways he hadn’t chosen?

 

He scrutinized himself so viciously he gave himself headaches.

 

But every time he finished his inspection, he found the same truth waiting for him.

 

He still felt like himself.

 

The mark was the only thing that suggested otherwise. It sat on his neck like an accusation. When he stood before the mirror each morning and night, it was the first thing his eyes sought. They returned to it with the compulsive habit of a tongue finding a sore tooth, even when it ached. He lifted his claws to prod at it again and again, needing the reassurance of pain to confirm its reality.

 

He wanted to peel it off, sometimes. And rip the flesh anew - replacing the mark entirely with his own. 

 

It was a visceral thought but it flickered across his mind with disturbing regularity.

 

Eventually Vox had had to catch his wrist mid-reach, stilling the claws with a firm but gentle grip, his voice smoothing into that patient chastisement that made Alastor’s skin crawl.

 

“Baby, stop picking. You’ll irritate it.”

 

And Alastor obeyed. 

But his clawtips still twitched every time he caught sight of the scar.

 

That fear intertwined with the greater, heavier one; pregnancy. The dread that knotted itself in his belly each morning and refused to unravel. Vox had filled him repeatedly during the cycle, as though trying to pour a future into him through sheer physical insistence. 

 

Alastor had cleaned himself so many times he had rubbed his inner thighs raw, but nothing changed the memory of it. The sensation of being full during such a precarious time. The fear that something inside him might be quietly knitting itself into existence.

 

He was tempted to take another pill early. 

 

To swallow one of his precious stolen lifelines as a safeguard. But they were finite. He couldn’t afford to waste even one.

 

So he waited.

Every morning he woke stiff and trembling, eyes shooting open to the same ceiling of Vox’s penthouse. Vox’s arm was a heavy band around his waist, his screen dimmed to black except for animated little floating “z’s” in a shade of pale blue. The man slept so peacefully that Alastor felt obscene for lying motionless in his grip, breathing shallow and fast as he scanned his body for signs of change.

 

But there was nothing. His stomach sat flat beneath his palm. His limbs trembled only with nerves, not illness. His scent was the same, if a little bitter with anxiety. His throat loosened with cautious relief - relief that often  evaporated just as quickly as it came.

 

Because he didn't know what pregnancy felt like. 

 

A few days after his heat had passed, he approached Vox with careful politeness, asking for “educational reading material” about the subject. Vox, delighted by the implication, had practically materialized a small library for him by midday. 

 

Medical texts, guidebooks, illustrated pamphlets and even historical accounts of Omega biology and gestation.

 

Alastor had forced himself to go through them all after he completed his daily chores. 

 

He’d sat curled on the sofa with a blanket wrapped around his legs, flipping page after page while his stomach twisted. He studied diagrams of wombs and placentas with detached revulsion. He memorized lists of early symptoms - morning nausea, chest tenderness in those more mammalian-presenting, changes in scent and disrupted sleep. 

 

He traced the timelines illustrated in printed ink, imagining himself plotted out along those curved lines like livestock being monitored through a breeding season. 

 

And when he finally closed the last book, his claws left tiny crescents of pressure on the cover.

 

He breathed out slowly.

 

He wasn’t showing signs.

 

For now. 

 

❧

 

Vox had taken away his wine.

 

He’d opened the cabinet with a cheerful hum, plucked out each bottle that Alastor had come to rely on and tucked them neatly into a locked, reinforced drawer beneath the kitchen counter. A place Alastor could not access, not without making a scene. Not without making himself look ungrateful or unstable.

 

Alastor stood there as it happened, his hands curling slowly into his palms until his claws bit against the soft pads. His smile stayed in place but it had the strained quality of a mask pulled too tight. Vox noticed the flicker of tension but interpreted it only as sadness, an Omega’s innocent dependence on vice to cope. So he cupped Alastor’s cheek, murmured reassurances amd kissed his temple as though soothing some mild inconvenience rather than stripping him of the only reprieve he had left.

 

“Just temporary, love,” Vox said. “You need to keep your body clean for the baby. It’s what’s best for both of you.”

 

Both of you.

Alastor nearly retched.

 

When the Alpha finally disappeared into his office, Alastor stood alone in the kitchen, staring at the locked drawer. His breath trembled out of him. He knew better than to try the handle, even experimentally. Vox might have cameras hidden or microphones built into the walls. Technology permeated every inch of this place. Even the air felt wired.

 

So he turned away and made do with what he had left.

 

His homemade lemonade.

 

He mixed it in quiet, controlled motions. The rhythm soothed him in a way. He poured himself a glass and lifted it to his lips, closing his eyes as he let the sourness burn across his tongue. He swallowed, imagining that the bitterness had the coppery sting of wine - that a numbness was spreading and a comfortable haze was settling within his mind.

 

It was pathetic.

But it was all he had.

 

That, and the radio.

 

The radio booth was still a sanctuary, the one place where he could force his voice into shape and pretend he was still the person he’d designed himself to be. Behind the microphone, with the warm buzz of feedback and the comforting glow of the “LIVE” indicator, he could lie to the world with ease. 

 

His cadence flowed smooth and  confident - everything he no longer felt in his own home. There he could imagine that his body was not betraying him. That something wasn’t quietly rooting itself into his womb, growing by the day and weakening him and siphoning away what little future he might have carved for himself.

 

The thought hollowed him out from the inside.

He pressed a hand to his abdomen sometimes, when no one was watching, feeling nothing but a flat plane of fur and flesh - yet imagining something monstrous curled beneath it, drinking his strength and stitching its existence into his bones. 

 

And so he sat at his booth, his voice light and warm as honey over the airwaves, smiling through the words. 

 

❧

 

The test revealed the truth.

 

Nothing.

 

For a moment Alastor simply stared at the small stick resting between his trembling fingers. It was negative. 

 

The fragile little symbol might as well have been divine intervention. 

 

His whole body sagged, a violent tremor rippling through him as relief crashed over his nerves in a tidal wave so heavy his knees nearly buckled.

 

The pill had worked.

It had fucking worked.

 

He folded in on himself where he sat on the closed toilet lid, arms wrapping around his torso as though trying to hold his insides in place. He pressed his forehead to his knees, breathing through the last shards of panic and the last horrible images of a swollen belly and ruined autonomy. His claws dug into his shins. His pulse throbbed in his throat.

 

Relief. 

 

Pure and all-consuming. 

 

The moment shattered the second he heard knuckles rap gently against the bathroom door. Vox’s voice filtered through the wood, bright with that hopeful lilt he had tried so hard not to dread. 

 

“Alastor? Sweetheart? Everything alright in there?”

 

The Omega jolted as though struck. His heart slammed against his ribs, breath caught high in his chest. Quickly he scrambled upright, depositing the test upon the nearest counter. He tugged on his embarrassingly lacy panties with clumsy, shaking hands; wincing as the fabric snapped back against his hips. He smoothed his skirt down over them, trying to tame the tremor working its way through his limbs.

 

He could not emerge triumphant.

He had to emerge convincingly fragile.

 

He crossed to the mirror and closely examined his too-perfect reflection. He forced himself to inhale, then gave his head a fierce shake, mussing the careful waves Vox adored. He blinked rapidly until moisture gathered at the corners of his eyes. 

 

Not enough to weep, not enough to seem irrational - just enough to look like a marked Omega shaken by possibility and desperate not to disappoint.

He softened his mouth, lowered his ears and tilted his head just so.

 

Perfect.

Believable.

 

A creature anxious to please.

 

“Alastor?” Vox called again, concern edging upward.

 

The doe opened the door.

 

And as soon as he crossed the threshold he let his knees loosen, collapsing forward with a quiet, trembling sound straight into Vox’s waiting arms. The Alpha caught him instantly, hands warm and firm against his waist and back, concern blooming across the glow of his screen.

 

“Baby? What’s wrong? Talk to me.”

 

Alastor buried his face against his husband’s chest, letting his breath hitch delicately - just enough to sell the performance. He trembled, letting Vox feel the shiver, letting him think it was fear of inadequacy. 

 

Just an Omega needing comfort from his mate.

 

And Vox, thoroughly convinced, held him tighter, murmuring soft reassurances into his hair as Alastor closed his eyes and exhaled one last silent, shaking breath of genuine relief.

 

❧

 

Alastor secretly savored Vox’s disappointment like a prime cut of decadent, savory meat. He hid it well but inside, something bright and vicious unfurled. Vox’s grand timeline, his meticulous plans for their “family,” for their “future,” had been pushed back by an entire year. 

 

A whole blessed, merciful year.

 

Thank fuck.

 

Vox had held him close in the aftermath of the “news,” petting his hair in gentle sweeps, offering reassurances as though soothing a wounded animal. He spoke with such tenderness as he promised Alastor that they’d try again next year. That this setback only gave them more time to prepare. He pressed kisses to Alastor’s temple, his utterances soft and whispered against his ear.

 

Alastor nodded through it all. Even offered a tremulous little smile. He played the part beautifully.

 

But behind that mask, he thought only of the pills tucked away in their little hiding places. Those tiny life preservers scattered through drawers, jars, pockets, and boxes like seeds of rebellion. Each small tablet bought him another year. Each year stacked into years. And those years into decades.

 

Freedom was not a single act. It was a long game - a patient one -  and Alastor could play patience better than any Alpha who had ever tried to own him.

 

Decades.

 

He could all but taste them.

 

And as Vox kissed his forehead and whispered lovingly about next year’s attempts, Alastor lowered his eyes and hid the spark of triumph blazing quietly within him.

 

❧

 

Angel Dust arrived that afternoon with a theatrical flourish, hips swaying and lashes fluttering, but beneath all the glitter was a very deliberate softness. 

 

Vox had “helpfully” informed him of the bad news, clearly hoping a friendly Omega presence might soothe Alastor’s supposed heartbreak. And so, with the Overlord gone for the day and the penthouse filled with the soft hum of hidden cameras, Angel stepped in, voice honey-thick.

 

“Oh, honey,” he breathed, dramatic and lilting, “I heard.”

 

His approach was slow and calculated. His performance tailored for any eyes watching from vents or light fixtures or whatever clever little things Vox had wired into the walls. A gentle hand touched Alastor’s cheek, tilting his face upward. 

 

Angel’s gaze was tender in a way that read perfectly for surveillance: sympathetic, encouraging and full of shared longing for what they both “wanted.”

 

But his eyes. 

 

His eyes told a different story entirely.

 

“It happens,” Angel Dust soothed, thumb brushing Alastor’s cheek as though wiping away nonexistent tears. “Ain’t no shame in it. Sometimes it don’t take the first time, or even the second. All ya gotta do is keep trying.” 

 

His voice dipped into a comforting purr, but the faintest edge of mirth curled at the corner of his mouth.

 

Alastor let himself be pulled into the embrace, arms wrapping around the spider’s narrow waist. He felt Angel’s scent settle around him - sweet and powdery - and he nuzzled in just enough to sell the image. His head rested on Angel’s shoulder, face turned just enough for the cameras to capture his supposed vulnerability.

 

Soft hands framed his face, drawing him back so Angel could study him. Angel’s expression flickered into something small and triumphant. A glint of private satisfaction disguised as empathy.

 

“There ya go,” Angel whispered, audible for the mics, “just breathe. You’re gonna be okay, sugar. Vox’ll take good care of ya.”

 

Alastor responded with a tremulous, grateful little gaze - the perfect Omega engaging in the perfect display of shared comfort.

 

But his eyes glinted.

 

A razor-thin smile curled at Angel’s lips. To a casual observer, it was sweetness. Sympathetic warmth. Nothing more.

 

But between them?

 

It was victory.

 

A well-timed move in a carefully choreographed waltz.

 

A pair of predators momentarily wrapped in lace and softness. Baring just a hint of their teeth for one another, hidden in the shadow of an embrace.

 

A single beat of shared triumph.

 

Then Angel brushed his thumbs over Alastor’s cheeks again, sighing dramatically for the cameras. 

 

“C’mon, gorgeous,” he cooed, drawing him close, “let’s get you cleaned up. How about a bit of a drink to calm the nerves?”

 

Alastor’s quiet laugh hid the sharp, bright amusement that flickered deep in his chest.

 

“That would be lovely.” 

 

The wine cabinet had been unlocked following the news, after all. 

 

A year bought.

 

And two Omegas smiling like angels as they celebrated it under the watchful eye of Hell.

 

Notes:

This officially marks the end of the initial start of the story. Offering context related to Vox's beginnings with Alastor.

With arc two transitioning into Lucifer's respective arc.

Thank you all for bearing with me while I try my best at creating a cohesive narrative.

Each and every comment gives me a surge of muse and they're all greatly appreciated.

I've the next three days off. So I intend to work on the following chapters and get them out as quickly as possible.

Chapter 21: 21

Thirty years later…

 

Hell was unrecognizable.

 

It had always been a living thing, but three decades had enforced a transformation that felt deliberate. The skyline sprawled higher, its architecture shedding old infernal aesthetics in favor of modern silhouettes that mirrored the living world. Skyscrapers rose and entire districts had been gutted and rebuilt to suit the trends of each new era.

 

Nothing in Hell stayed stagnant.

Except, perhaps, its inhabitants.

 

For Alastor, the passage of time had felt less like a journey and more like the slow drip of water in a prison cell. Thirty years under Vox’s shadow had carved grooves into his existence, each day blending seamlessly into the next until the years accumulated like sediment.

 

His role as Vox’s wife had hardly changed at first. The early years were painfully tight and suffocating in their monotony; the rigid schedules, the expectations and the forced domestic tasks that grated against every rebellious bone in his body. 

 

But even Hell evolved and society with it. A cultural shift had swept through Overlord circles. It was slow, halting progress toward a more “modern” view of Omega roles. Nothing revolutionary, but enough to trickle down into their personal life.

 

And Vox, ever obsessed with modernization, had embraced these changes in the way he embraced all trends; eagerly, performatively and with an annoying degree of pride.

 

The penthouse had been gutted twice over, rebuilt into something sleek and glimmering. A live-in housemaid eventually took over Alastor’s domestic duties. Not because Vox believed it beneath him, but because high society had begun to value an Omega’s “mental well-being” and “personal development” as desirable accessories for their Alpha husbands and wives. 

 

Image mattered. 

 

Progress mattered.

And Vox was a creature who adored appearing progressive.

 

He still expected obedience, of course. Still made decisions before consulting him. Still treated him as something precious and breakable. But his grip had loosened enough for Alastor to slip a few claws free. 

 

There were privileges now - outings and evenings where he could wander small sections of the city with supervision. His radio career, once a novelty, had grown into something resembling genuine work. People knew his voice. Admired it. Asked when he would return to the booth if he vanished for more than a week.

 

He remained under Vox’s thumb. 

 

That fact had never changed.

 

But at least the thumb no longer smothered him.

 

He could breathe some days. Not deeply. Not freely. But enough to pretend. Enough to feel the air move through his lungs without choking him.

 

And yet he still woke some mornings, staring at the ceiling of a penthouse he never asked for, wondering when true freedom would stop existing as a distant, unreachable fantasy.

 

For now he gritted his teeth and endured in potent, contemplative silence. 

 

❧

 

The nursery remained untouched.

 

Year after year, Vox funneled money, energy and hope into that barren little room. Swatches of color tested, furniture ordered and replaced and entire designs shifted as trends came and went. Yet nothing took root there. No crib was ever built. No toys ever purchased. The walls never absorbed the soft, warm scent of infant life. The place sat frozen in time, a pristine shrine to a future that refused to manifest.

 

Every year ended in disappointment.

 

Doctors came and went, each one evaluating the Omega who should - by every measurable standard - have conceived without issue. They had examined him thoroughly, only to leave with baffled expressions and carefully neutral diagnoses. Alastor was healthy. Extremely healthy. Vox was thriving. Potent, even. Their timing had always aligned perfectly with his cycle. By all accounts, nature should have taken its course.

 

Yet there was nothing.

 

The first few failures had wounded Vox’s pride. By the tenth year, frustration had carved lines into the glow of his projected features. By the twentieth, disappointment had dulled into weary resignation. 

 

But never did he turn that frustration on Alastor. Instead Vox carried it privately, smothering it under a veneer of gentle reassurance. Eventually he abandoned the meticulous tracking, the specialists and the hopeful preparations. He adopted a softer stance, insisting they “leave it to fate” each time his wife entered heat.

 

He still hoped, of course. He always hoped. But he no longer tried to control it.

 

And that became Alastor’s greatest advantage. 

 

Angel Dust was his accomplice in maintaining the illusion. For thirty years the two Omegas had played a delicate, dangerous game - one built on whispers, careful choreography and a shared desire to survive individuals who would shape them into something lesser if they slipped even once.

 

Angel had proven indispensable. A trickster. A confidant. A master of timing and subtlety. Together they built an entire facade convincing enough to deceive two Overlords and their empires: Valentino, ever suspicious and cruel, and Vox, whose technological empire gave him far too many ways to monitor what should have been private.

 

Yet neither suspected a thing.

 

Alastor found the bond between them strange and unexpectedly dear. Angel Dust - with his affinity for sin and spectacle - had become a fixture in his life. A fellow Omega who wielded survival like an art form. Their banter, their shared laughter and their quiet moments of victory… all of it forged a rare trust between them. A trust carved not from similarity, but from mutual sharpness.

 

Angel wasn’t merely a friend.
 

He was an ally. A lifeline.

❧

 

Vox’s media empire had swelled into something titanic. An ever-churning leviathan of content, commerce, and curated depravity. His flagship, the broadcasting monolith that bore his name, had long ago begun to absorb subsidiary branches, but the most lucrative was Valentino’s adult film empire. 

 

Their partnership had grown naturally from mutual ambition: Valentino sought reach, distribution, and technological dominance; Vox desired a foothold in industries that guaranteed eternal demand. Together they made a perfect, if unsettling, match.

 

It meant that the two Alphas met often. Very often. And with their frequent meetings came convenience: wherever Valentino went, Angel Dust tended to follow. A prized ornament and a fiercely leveraged moneymaker. Vox, on his part, kept Alastor close whenever optics demanded it. He was to be the picture-perfect spouse; well-groomed and radiant, projecting domestic harmony and cultural refinement.

 

The pairing of their Omegas was therefore treated as a charming inevitability.

 

Both Overlords seemed enamored with the idea. They found the friendship between their partners deeply endearing. As though the camaraderie of their pretty little lovers signaled something symbolic. Something that reflected back on them, implying compatibility and synchronized vision. They encouraged it gleefully, having even arranged dual outings. 

 

Brunches in gaudy sky-rise restaurants. Box seats at newly renovated theaters. Nights tucked into the velvet-lined VIP lounges of Valentino’s clubs, where champagne and smoke clung thick to the air. Even quiet evenings in Vox’s penthouse, where the lights dimmed to a romantic glow as their partners conversed in the background, sounding for all the world like a pair of bored housewives making the best of their respective incarcerations.

 

Through these gatherings, Alastor began to notice something… peculiar.

 

A shift.

Small, almost imperceptible at first, but growing steadily.

 

The way Valentino’s eyes lingered on Vox. The way Vox, usually so quick to swat away unwanted touch, tolerated Valentino’s clawed hands on his shoulder, on his jaw or brushing the edge of his screen in a gesture that skirted intimacy. They spoke closely, their heads angled toward one another, their tones dropping into conspiratorial murmurs whenever business folded into something warmer. 

 

It was a dynamic Alastor had known existed between powerful Alphas - alliances sealed not merely through contract, but through flesh, dominance and indulgence. Power recognized power. And power desired to consume its equal.

 

What intrigued him most was Vox’s reaction. He didn’t push him away. He didn’t cool the contact with a polite boundary. He allowed Valentino’s flirtations to settle on him like perfume.

 

Alastor had witnessed their first kiss entirely by accident.

 

He had been wandering the corridors of the penthouse, a glass of wine in hand, seeking a quiet place to enjoy a moment of unmonitored breathing. He turned a corner and there they were. Valentino pressed against the wall, Vox leaning in, his screen flickering with static bursts of confusion and want. It was an eager, breathless tangle of tongue and claws. A private moment. One they clearly meant to keep secret.

 

Valentino broke from the kiss first, grinning like a cat with cream. Vox looked devastated, his hands suspended uncertainly as he realized Alastor was watching. The deer arched a brow, calm and unimpressed, the reaction so thoroughly devoid of jealousy that it left both men briefly stunned.

 

The affair was not a burden, but an unexpected blessing.

 

For once, Alastor wasn’t the only one expected to endure Vox’s attentions. Some nights, the Alpha didn’t return home at all. Some afternoons, he arrived smelling faintly of Valentino’s perfume and entirely too pleased with himself. Vox apologized profusely for those nights, face earnest and voice soft, promising he could stop at any time if Alastor wished. If it hurt him. If it made him uncomfortable.

 

Alastor, perfectly serene, gave his blessing.

 

He didn’t mind.
 

He didn’t particularly even care.

 And in truth, he hoped that Vox’s heart would drift elsewhere.

 

But it didn’t.

Of course not.

Such mercy never found him.

 

If anything, Vox became more devoted. More attentive. More passionate. The affair only heightened his desire to treat Alastor as the centerpiece of his domestic universe. As though indulging in Valentino made his affection for his “wife” burn hotter. Jealousy had never been Alastor’s style. But irritation? That he could manage in spades.

 

And then their little collective became something else entirely.

A triad.

 

Because Velvette swung into the scene with devastating flourish.

 

She arrived like a spark in a powder keg. Small, sharp, brilliantly dressed  and carrying the force of a culture-shifting hurricane. A Beta, yes, but one who bent her status into a weapon rather than a limitation. She was surprisingly young but very effectively she carved her niche in the fashion and modeling world with a ruthlessness that mirrored Valentino’s and a cunning that rivaled Vox’s.

 

Social media had rose like wildfire through Hell’s populace at the time of her arrival - and Velvette ascended with it effortlessly. Millions followed her. Worshipped her. Imitated her, even. She became the face of modern Hell culture and through her influence - and Valentino’s industry and Vox’s empire - the three joined forces.

 

They were a power trio. A brand. A living storm that reshaped Hell’s landscape with every collaboration, every publicity campaign and every scandal engineered for maximum attention.

 

Alastor observed them with the cool, quiet fascination. They were beautiful in their monstrosity. Near flawless in their synergy. Sitting together in their private lounge - a room of pillows, velvet couches, neon lights and sleek screens - felt like watching a tri-headed beast in action. 

 

In those moments, he and Angel Dust would often sit nearby, tangled limbs draped over chaise lounges, glasses of wine in hand. Two gorgeous ornaments placed tastefully within their reach. 

 

They knew how to play their roles. And they did it well. 

 

❧

The trio known as The Vees, for all their razor-edged ambition and carefully cultivated cruelty, were undeniably fond of Alastor and Angel Dust. They displayed that fondness in ways both ostentatious and subtle. The pair plied with lavish gifts, indulgent outings and protection in the form of an occasional protective snarl directed at some overeager sycophant. 

 

It was a form of affection rooted in ownership, pride and a strange, infectious warmth that threatened to teeter into obsession. 

 

And the public adored the Omega pair.
 

Adored them.

 

Alastor’s voice had threaded itself into the collective consciousness of Hell over the decades. Smooth and lilting and wickedly charming. A voice that had become synonymous with entertainment; a familiar companion to millions who eagerly tuned in each night. No matter how much the world changed, that voice remained a constant - a warmth that seeped into even the most problematic households like a welcomed ghost.

 

Angel Dust, meanwhile, had become a legend in his own right. The most coveted Omega in Valentino’s arsenal of stars. A beauty so visceral that even Alphas who should have known better bit their tongues and swallowed their yearning. He embodied sin with a kind of artistry. His sleek limbs, silken voice and smile promising debauchery and devastation in equal measure.

 

Between the two of them, they could freeze a room with a look or ignite a riot with a wink. When they entered the public eye, even the Vees found themselves sharing the spotlight. Paparazzi clamored. Reporters groveled. Fans screamed themselves hoarse.

 

For all the power the Vees wielded, it was their Omegas who crowned their empire with glamour.

 

But that glamour was not the same as power.

And everyone knew it.

 

They were adored.

Coveted.

Put on pedestals made of glass.

 

But never treated as equals.

 

No one asked Alastor for final approval on a media deal. No one invited Angel Dust into a boardroom to discuss mergers. Their contributions were immense - Alastor’s ratings alone could sway market trends; Angel Dust’s performances could generate more revenue in a month than some studios earned in a year. Their influence extended far beyond their homes, bleeding into culture, fashion, nightlife and entertainment.

 

Still, they were only ever given “allowances” like pampered royalty. They received gifts instead of dividends. Luxuries instead of leverage. Praise instead of ownership.

 

Because at the end of every day -

 

-  they remained Omegas.

 

Beautiful.
 

Valuable.
 

Deeply cherished.

 

But never free.

 

❧

Alastor had long ago mastered the art of survival in this world. It wasn’t a skill one learned willingly; Hell beat it into him until he refined it with the same sharp precision he once reserved for killing. Angel Dust had eased the road considerably, smoothing the rough edges of social navigation and offering whispered guidance in crowded rooms where every smile had teeth. 

 

Together, they’d perfected the routine required of high-profile Omegas: a delicate dance of charm and obedience.

 

Public appearances were theater.

Private meetings were a strategy.

And through it all, they existed in a strange liminal space. They spoke only when the moment was right, offered a cutting quip or a melodic laugh when prompted and otherwise languished like pampered pets perched on gilded cushions. Not seen as peers. Not taken seriously. Yet impossible to ignore.

 

Velvette took personal responsibility in sculpting their images, treating them as living canvases.

 

 Angel Dust’s outfits were crafted to weaponize his beauty: glossy leather hugging his hips, silk cascading like smoke, tops that framed his chest perfectly and leaving just enough exposed to spark desire. He moved like temptation incarnate and Velvette made sure the entire world saw the art in it.

 

Alastor’s wardrobe was another beast entirely. Velvette dressed him not only as Vox’s Omega, but as the voice of the airwaves - a creature polished and elegant in a way that commanded attention without appearing to seek it.  Soft fabrics that complemented the curve of his waist; cuts that highlighted the length of his legs and the delicate slope of his shoulders. Refined and feminine enough to align with the image of a beloved radio host and wife.

 

Conservative by comparison, but no less alluring.

Velvette understood the unspoken rules of their world - how far an Omega could push, how much skin they could show and how to dress them in a way that satisfied their Alpha’s pride. She never said as much aloud, but Alastor saw it: the rare glimmer of respect in her eyes, the subtle nod that acknowledged his role not as a mindless pet, but as a performer maintaining the illusion flawlessly.

 

And so he walked beside the Vees, immaculate and composed, neither owned nor free. He smiled when required, charmed where expected and let Velvette’s chosen fabrics drape over his frame without complaint. 

❧

“Fuck - this shit is tight,” Angel Dust hissed under his breath, plucking irritably at the pink frills crowding his chest. The outfit was adorable, obscene, and - judging by how aggressively he kept tugging at it - maddeningly uncomfortable.

 

Alastor stood beside him in the photography studio, hands folded neatly behind his back as though he hadn’t spent the last ten minutes silently calculating how many exits the room possessed. The space was wide, all bright lights and polished floors, with a backdrop curated to highlight the Vees’ aesthetic: neon-drenched, sharp-edged glamour with hints of curated decadence.

 

The trio was in their element.

 

Valentino draped himself against Vox with lazy sensuality, all fluttering lashes and smirks that promised trouble. Vox countered with a cocky tilt of his shoulders, the glow of his screen bright enough to halo them both. Velvette, meanwhile, glided around them like a shark in designer heels - sliding in, pressing close and shifting her pose with predatory confidence.

 

They moved together beautifully.

Too beautifully.

The kind of chemistry that came from power, ego and an adoring audience.

 

It would be Alastor and Angel Dust’s turn soon enough. But for now, they stood to the side, decorative and unnoticed. Expected to wait and watch. 

 

Angel let out a theatrical groan, fluffing his chest fur with both hands. “I swear, Vel keeps tryin’ to corset me into oblivion. Look at this - my tits are practically screaming for help.”

 

Alastor hummed politely, gaze drifting over the spider’s frills before returning to the Vees’ performance. “You do look rather… buoyant,” he drawled, quietly. “Very… lifted.”

 

“Oh, bite me,” Angel muttered, though he preened a little anyway. “What about you? You comfy in that getup?”

 

Alastor glanced down at himself. Deep crimson blouse, flared trousers that moved like liquid when he shifted and not a single ounce of fabric hiding his hooves or the sleek line of his tail. Velvette had insisted his more bestial traits were ‘marketable.’ That word alone had made him question his life choices.

 

He exhaled a thin, sharp little sigh. “It’s tolerable,” he replied. “Though the public’s fascination with my legs continues to mystify me.”

 

Angel grinned. “Oh sweetheart - they ain’t fascinated. They’re feral. Half the comments on your last promo shot were just people droolin’ over your feet. What do they call you now? 'Bambi?'”

 

Alastor’s smile twitched at the edges. “Yes,” he replied, flatly. “How very… quaint.”

 

Angel snorted, elbow bumping his arm. “Could be worse, babe. Could’ve been ‘Venison.’ Valentino got a good laugh outta that shit.”

 

Alastor blinked slowly. “I hate that you’ve given them ideas.”

 

The lights flashed again across the studio bringing with it another burst of white brilliance as the Vees locked themselves into another sensual tangle of pose-perfect silhouettes. Vox’s laugh carried through the room, sharp and triumphant. And Valentino’s answering purr followed, accompanied by Velvette’s pitched titter. 

 

“Showtime soon,” Angel murmured, tugging one last time on his outfit before giving up. “Ready to be cute and useless?”

 

Alastor folded his hands primly in front of him, his posture immaculate.

 

“My dear Angel,” he said, softly, “I was born ready.”

 

They shared a quiet laugh, eyes glittering with a shared affection. 

 

Chapter 22: 22

Vox had changed in ways Alastor could never have predicted. Not fully, at least. The man he’d married thirty years prior - that soft-voiced, adoring and almost painfully earnest Alpha -  had been chipped away one upgrade at a time. 

 

It was subtle. A gradual sharpening of edges. A steady hardening of tone and posture and presence until Alastor sometimes wondered whether the television-faced man in the penthouse was truly the same creature he’d once known.

 

He hadn’t noticed it at first. No one did. Vox’s transitions between models were always marketed as improvements. Sleeker lines, crisper projection, better sound quality and an enhanced sensory output. But the upgrades bled into the man as well. 

 

A new model meant a new program of behavior. A slightly altered voice. A new set of algorithmic tendencies. He retained his memories, yes, but his temperament… that shifted. Just enough to matter.

 

Just enough to unsettle.

 

Alastor saw it most clearly in the small moments. The way Vox’s smile became a fraction too sharp and the way his tone carried a bite even when he intended sweetness. He no longer fawned. No longer spilled affection in gentle waves. Now he curated it, controlled it and delivered it as though hosting the evening news. 

 

Hell adored the change. 

 

The citizens swooned for the confident Vox -  the cocky Vox -  the brightly lit tyrant who delivered the news with swagger and smirking charm. They celebrated every update as though receiving a new emperor. Vox basked in it. He played to his audience. And power began to truly shape him. 

 

Alastor felt this shift acutely. Vox still loved him - there was no denying that. Thirty years had not dimmed the man’s devotion. If anything, it had intensified to something nearly obsessive. But sweetness had given way to scrutiny. Devotion had hardened into expectation. Vox watched him more closely now. Corrected him softly, then sternly. Wanted him polished, presentable and perfect in every public appearance and every private moment.

 

He wanted his wife to match his image.

 

That meant attire tailored to the era. Alastor’s fondness for vintage elegance now considered “quaint” rather than charming. Vox would gently brush a sleeve, adjust a collar or outright toss aside an outfit with an irritated, “No, honey, that won’t photograph well. Change.”

 

He also wanted Alastor tech-literate. 

 

“The world is modernizing,” Vox had said as he pressed a gleaming smartphone into the incredulous doe’s hand. “You’re a public figure. You need to keep up.”

 

Alastor had stared at the device as though it were some dangerous artifact from an unfamiliar dimension. Sleek, cold and glowing faintly in his palm. He’d fumbled with it so spectacularly that Vox, with a patient little sigh, had activated the accessibility features and locked half the apps to prevent Alastor “accidentally deleting something important.”

 

Thank fuck for Angel Dust.

 

Angel had perched beside him during one of their shared afternoons, long legs crossed and amusement dancing in his gaze as he guided Alastor through the absolute basics. 

 

“No, babe, that’s the power button - not a self-destruct switch. And that little ding? That means you got a message, not that you’re cursed.”

 

Alastor had muttered darkly under his breath. “It feels cursed.”

 

Angel tittered. “Everything’s cursed, sweetheart. Welcome to Hell.”

 

Without Angel’s quick instruction, Alastor would’ve been hopelessly behind - likely another weakness Vox would eventually notice and “correct.” But because Angel had stepped in, Alastor passed - just barely - every silent little test Vox placed in front of him.

 

❧

 

Alastor felt the pressure of time like a hand at the back of his neck. Fifty years had once felt extravagant - a cushion large enough to soften any fall. But then fifty slipped to forty, forty slid into thirty and now only twenty remained; thin as a thread. 

 

A single strained decade and a half, with change leftover. The diminishing number pulsed in his mind whenever he caught his own reflection - whenever he saw the glint of the bond-scar on his throat - whenever Vox held him just a little too tightly.

 

And still no Adam.

 

Nor a stone-faced king. 

 

The first few years he had written draft after draft of letters in secret, only to realize that sending even one was too dangerous. Vox saw too much. Vox noticed everything. Well, almost everything. 

 

Still.

 

The letters remained unsent and thoroughly destroyed as the longing curdled into something sour and heavy.

 

The anxiety built in increments, subtle but relentless. Every year that passed pressed deeper, leaving bruises he carried beneath that perfect smile. Some nights, when the dread twisted too sharply in his gut, he drank until thought blurred into fuzz. Nights when Vox was away enjoying Valentino’s company, Alastor would greedily claim a bottle and fall into a drunken stupor. 

 

Angel Dust had once told him, with casual honesty and a sympathetic pat, “You’re a functional drunk, babe. Nothin’ wrong with that in this city.”

 

He’d said it lightly with no judgment present in his tone. And Alastor, listening through the blissful fog of his fourth glass had almost laughed. Because yes - he was functional. He did the chores, charmed the public and fucked his husband when required. 

 

He just preferred doing all that with a warm buzz in his veins.

 

The mark on his neck had faded from raw tenderness into something healed and permanent - serving as a constant reminder. The boon held strong, insulating his mind from the tug of the bond; but he could feel its edges thinning. Not yet failing. Not yet dangerous. But softer than they once were.

 

He needed Lucifer.

 

He was ready to throw himself at the King’s feet if that’s what it took. Ready to grovel and bargain and bleed. But what if no one came? What if the King had simply lost interest. Leaving one more stray Omega to slip between the cracks of eternity?

 

That fear clung to him more viciously than any nightmare. Sometimes he’d lie awake beside Vox, watching the glow of the screen-face flicker with serene, sleeping animations and he’d imagine himself trapped in this life forever. Forever performing, forever beautiful, forever swallowed whole by someone else’s narrative.

The thought left him cold.

 

Angel Dust offered what comfort he could. Their friendship had become a small mercy in a world that felt otherwise barren. They shared wine, secrets and the occasional wicked joke that kept insanity a step away. And yet even Angel could not soothe the ache for Niffty - the little Beta he loved like family, kept now at arm’s length out of caution.

 

Vox disliked her and Alastor knew exactly what could happen to those an Alpha disliked.

 

So visits were rare. Careful. Brief touches of nostalgia and affection before distance was reestablished. 

 

But at least he wasn’t alone.

 

At least there was a creature within reach that looked at him not as a possession or an ornament or a prize to parade, but as a person. 

 

It was… nice.

 

So nice.

 

Just enough to keep him sane while time continued to unwind beneath his feet.

 

❧

 

“Oi, Vox. Looks like your little bella is unsteady on his feet.”

 

Valentino’s voice slithered across the room, amused and entirely too pleased. The words scraped along Alastor’s ears, already twitching from the quiet hum in his skull. He knew he shouldn’t have drunk as much as he had. He had told himself that today was the wrong day to indulge. Vox was set to broadcast within minutes. The studio was full of eyes and cameras.

 

But for one blissful hour, he hadn’t given a single damn.

 

Angel Dust clung to his arm like a lifeline, trying to reposition himself in a way that made it look like casual affection rather than desperate stabilization. Those delicate hands dug lightly into Alastor’s elbow, trying to compensate for the way his knees seemed intent on drifting toward the floor.

 

“Fuck, babe,” Angel muttered under his breath, his smile stretched charmingly for the sake of anyone watching. “This is the wrong time. Wrong fuckin’ hour. Wrong universe. Just - fuckin’ stand still. Pretend you’re conscious.”

 

Alastor blinked very slowly. One lid cooperated. The other lagged behind. He gave no verbal answer. Just a faint, muzzy stare that slowly drifted toward Angel’s shoulder and then off into nothing at all.

 

“…Alastor?” Angel’s worry spiked, his voice thinning.

 

The soft support vanished abruptly.

 

Replaced instead with claws.

 

Vox yanked him forward with a grip meant for metal, not flesh. Alastor’s breath hitched as blue fingers framed his face with surgical precision - pinching his cheeks, forcing his unfocused gaze upward until he met the cold shimmer of Vox’s screen. The holographic eyes narrowed, flickering with a displeasure sharp enough to cut.

 

“Alastor.” Vox’s voice lost every ounce of public warmth. It was cold, clipped and far too clear. “How much did you drink?”

 

Alastor blinked.

 

Once.

 

Twice.

 

His mouth opened - 

 

- and the world lurched.

 

He didn’t even feel the warning twist in his gut until it was too late. A wet, violent heave tore up his throat and he keeled forward. He vomited a spectacular, wine-soured splash directly onto Vox’s immaculate suit jacket.

 

The studio fell silent in a single, suspended heartbeat.

 

Then - 

 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake - !” 

 

Vox’s shout cracked through the room like lightning, each syllable glitching from sheer outrage. Designers screeched in despair. Assistants scattered in panic. Valentino doubled over laughing, Velvette tutted and Angel Dust retreated a step, a hand pressed over his mouth in astonishment. 

 

And Vox?

 

He stood there drenched to the collarbones, eyes sparking static, ten minutes from going live with Hell’s most-watched evening broadcast and staring down at his wine-soaked wife with unfettered rage. 

 

Alastor breathed out a gentle, slurred:

 

“… oops.”

 

Chaos erupted like confetti. 

 

❧

 

Vox didn’t bother with gentleness.

 

A claw hooked around Alastor’s arm, yanking him through the hallway before anyone else could witness the spectacle. The nearest private room was shoved open and Alastor was practically flung inside. Vox stripped off his outer jacket in a single furious motion, the fabric peeling away with a wet slap. The white dress shirt beneath clung to him, stained and sticking to his chest in ugly patches.

 

“Stay here,” he snapped, voice pitched low with tightly leashed fury. “Don’t. Move.”

 

Alastor didn’t have much say in the matter - he was pushed onto a velvet sofa, landing face-first with a soft groan. The cushions swallowed him, plush and suffocating and the smell of expensive cleaning products warring with the sour twist in his gut. His stomach rolled again, a punishing churn that dragged a weak gag out of him. He curled an arm under his chest, breathing shallowly as the heat in his face prickled.

 

He must have looked pathetic: hair mussed, makeup smudged, and clothes immaculate but his body trembling and uncooperative. A primped-up disaster.

 

Vox paced like something caged. 

 

“I cannot fucking believe this,” he hissed under his breath - half to Alastor, half to the universe. “Ten minutes before broadcast and you - ”

 

Alastor gagged again.

 

And then he expelled another miserable splash of liquid, this time hitting the floor - 

 

 -  and Vox’s shoes.

 

There was a beat of absolute silence.

 

Vox froze.

 

Alastor blinked up from his slumped position, bleary and a touch cross-eyed… and then the corners of his mouth twitched. A little hiccup shook him. Then another. His shoulders trembled and a small, strangled snicker escaped before he could stifle it.

 

And then he laughed.

 

A soft, breathless giggle at first. Then fuller and utterly uncontrollable. It rolled out of him, bubbling like shaken champagne, and the more he tried to stop, the harder the laughter came. His eyes watered, half from drink and half from the absurdity.

 

Vox stared down at his ruined shoes, his expression the embodiment of static-frayed disbelief.

 

Which only made it funnier.

 

Alastor wheezed into the sofa, laughing so hard he shook. His ribs hurt. His face hurt. Everything hurt. 

 

But gods above and devils below, it was hilarious.

❧

 

Vox stripped him of alcohol. Again. A punishment masquerading as concern. The rules were never spoken outright, but they hung in the air like commandments all the same. If Alastor embarrassed him publicly - if he made a spectacle - then everything pleasurable vanished from his reach.

 

No outings.

No visits from Angel Dust.

No luxuries.

No relief.

 

Just silence and confinement, delivered with assurances that this was for his own good. Vox’s version of discipline had no need for raised voices, after all. Not when he had full control. 

 

And then came the withdrawal.

 

Real withdrawal.

 

The kind that grated bone.

 

The kind that made his limbs tremble so violently he feared they’d snap under the tension. The kind that turned the inside of his skull into a hot, pounding vice that throbbed behind his eyes and crawled down his spine like fire.

 

Every part of him ached for a sip.

 A mouthful.

 

Even a drop.

 

The craving carved at him, hollowing him from the inside out while nausea crept up in slow, miserable waves. His nerves screamed. His tongue felt thick and dry and his mouth flooded with the ghosts of taste.

 

He stumbled down the hall to Vox, grabbing onto the sleeve of his suit with clawed desperation.

 

“Please, Vincent. Please,” he whispered, voice paper-thin. “Just a little. Just a sip. Please.”

 

Vox didn’t even slow. He simply stopped long enough to pry Alastor’s trembling hands from the crisp fabric, one finger at a time. The movement was gentle but his face was a wall of polished steel.

 

“Go lie down, Alastor,” he said, smoothing the crease Alastor had left in his sleeve with a faint frown. “You’re sick. It’ll pass. Give it time.”

 

Alastor shook his head, frantic. His curls cling to his temples with sweat. His pupils were blown wide. Tears pooled, dripping hot tracks down his cheeks as his ears lay flat upon his head.

 

“No, no, no - Vincent, I can’t - I can’t - ” His voice cracked, thin as splintered glass. “Please, I’m dying - ”

 

“You’re not dying, sweetheart,” Vox corrected, firm. “You’re detoxing.”

 

And before Alastor could cling to him again, he was forced back onto their bed - swept up and unceremoniously deposited there. His body curled instinctively into itself, a trembling knot of fur and limbs; his breath coming in shallow, broken gasps. A soft, pathetic sound slipped from him as he despaired.

 

Vox exhaled as though tired of the entire display. He shook out the blanket and draped it carefully over Alastor’s shaking body, smoothing it along his back with an almost tender hand.

 

“There. Rest,” he said, voice soft. “You’ll feel more like yourself in a few days.”

 

He didn’t wait for a reply. Didn’t linger. He simply adjusted the collar of his shirt, stepped out of the room and shut the door behind him with a deliberate, final click.

 

❧

 

Vox exhaled wearily as he strode through the penthouse toward the kitchen. The sound was the only sign of the fraying patience beneath his polished composure. He would not give Alastor medication. Absolutely not. The Omega needed to ride this out naturally. But he could bring him something warm. Something soothing. 

 

Tea.
 

Unsweetened and warm. 

 

It was one of the few comforts Alastor tolerated during recovery. And while Vox rarely ventured into the kitchen he decided he could manage this small domestic gesture. 

 

He moved through the space with the awkwardness of someone navigating a museum rather than a lived-in room. The cabinets were unfamiliar territory. Every drawer felt like a puzzle box. He opened them slowly, brow arching at the assortment of utensils he did not recognize before he closed them again with faint annoyance.

 

Where did Alastor keep the tea?

 

He rifled through another drawer, projected lips tightening. Nothing useful. A whisk. A pastry brush. Several odd gadgets he didn’t care to identify.

 

Vox muttered under his breath, irritation prickling along his circuits. His projected brows narrowed slightly. He was not accustomed to feeling incompetent - especially not in his own home.

 

Another drawer.
 

Another fruitless search.

 

Then - 

 

He reached into a shallow drawer near the stove, expecting yet another array of utensils. And he did find the tea, crammed toward the back. Bland, herbal and organic - the kind Alastor favored for its gentleness.

 

“Finally,” he murmured.

 

He reached in, claws brushing the cardboard box - 

And something else.

 

Something small.

Hard.

A tiny click against his knuckle.

 

Vox paused.

 

At first he thought it was a stray seed or a screw from a utensil. But the object was wedged so discreetly into the corner that even pulling the drawer fully open wouldn’t reveal it. He pinched it between two claws with delicate precision and drew it into the light.

 

A pill.

 

A tiny, white pill.

 

He blinked down at it, the projection of his pupils sharpening like a camera lens adjusting focus. The object felt innocuous in his palm - weightless. Insignificant.

 

But it shouldn’t be here.

 

Nothing in this kitchen existed without a purpose.

 

And Alastor didn’t take medication.

 

He didn’t need to.

He wasn’t prescribed anything.

He wasn’t allowed anything.

 

Vox turned the pill over once, analyzing it with clinical calm. No brand marking. No identifying letter. Just a smooth, chalky capsule made to dissolve in the body without a trace.

 

His thoughts churned.

 

Slowly.

Methodically.

Dangerously.

 

A pill tucked away in a drawer where Vox would never look was not an accident.

 

He lifted the pill closer to the glow of his screen.

 

“Now what,” he said, softly, “are you doing here?”

Chapter 23: 23

Alastor drifted in and out of consciousness for days, never fully aware of where he ended and the room began. His vision refused to settle; everything shifted at the edges like an oil slick, shapes sliding in and out of coherence. 

 

Sometimes he saw Vox sitting beside him, the man wiping sweat from his brow with a cool cloth. Other times it was only a smear of light and color, a man-shaped blur that moved with certainty. Vox helped him sit upright when the nausea surged, arms firm around him as he retched into a plastic-lined trashcan prepped for the occasion. 

 

He fed him broth, spoon by spoon. He murmured reassurances whenever Alastor begged for relief. For a drink. For anything to quiet the screaming throb behind his skull.

 

And always Vox said no.

 

He tended him with unfaltering patience. He washed him every morning and night. He lifted him from the bed when his legs refused to work and kept him upright with a tenderness that brought no comfort. Alastor had hoped, in years prior, that Vox’s love might one day dull. That the man might eventually tire of this cycle of caretaking and punishment. 

 

But no. Vox remained steadfast. Unshakable. Loyal to a fault.

 

Every night those arms wrapped around him as though he were something precious.

 

Sometimes Vox left the room for hours. Alastor would lie motionless in the oppressive dark of their bedroom, listening to muffled sounds from beyond the door. Voices? Footsteps? A quiet mechanical hum? He could never tell. The fog in his mind swallowed half of what he heard and warped the rest. When he tried to call out, his throat barely worked. His words caught behind thickening cotton.

 

But Vox always returned.

 

A cool glass would appear against his lips, steady and insistent. The taste was wrong - subtle with a lingering after-note that made his tongue twitch. He didn’t like it. It didn’t taste like water. But Vox coaxed it down with soft shushing noises and soon afterward the weight in his head doubled; dragging him down into a deep, dreamless sleep.

 

He lost track of time.

 

Lost track of day or night.

 

Lost track of himself.

 

His body felt sluggish, too warm and too heavy. His thoughts dissolved whenever he tried to grasp them. Whenever he rose, it was only with Vox’s help; the man guiding him to the bathroom, washing him tenderly and steering him back to bed.

 

Something was wrong.

But the fog made the knowing feel far away.

 

He was being propped upright again, his back cushioned by strong arms. His head lolled. The world swayed. He couldn’t tell if the lights were dim or if his eyes simply refused to work.

 

A cool rim touched his lips.

 

Alastor jerked away slightly. 

 

The water tasted wrong.

 

He couldn’t explain it beyond that. Only that instinct roared at him. Something was off. Terribly off.

 

“No,” he whispered. It came out thick and broken. “No, Vincent.”

 

“Shh,” Vox hushed. “You need to stay hydrated.”

 

Alastor’s chest hitched, breath shallow. “It tastes - no - no… something’s - ”

 

Vox sighed, long and weary, as though the problem were Alastor’s stubbornness rather than the poison-laced fog consuming him.

 

“Come now, sweetheart,” he insisted, his voice edged with steel. “This is for the best.”

 

He pressed the glass more firmly to Alastor’s lips.

 

Alastor clenched his jaw, trembling. The liquid touched his mouth. But he refused to open. Tears pricked at his eyes - part confusion, part fear and part something else. 

 

“Alastor.”

 

The tone sharpened.

 

Still, he refused.

 

Finally, Vox pulled the glass away.

Relief swept through Alastor in a wave so intense it nearly made him slump sideways. He blinked dazedly, forcing his eyes open. They burned. Everything swam. The room looked perfectly normal - their bedroom, neat as always. But it felt wrong. Too quiet. Too still.

 

Then Vox was suddenly close again, sitting beside him on the bed. A hand stroked his cheek, gingerly pushing sweat-damp hair from his forehead. The man smiled down at him, warm and fond in a way that made Alastor’s skin crawl.

 

“How are you feeling, sweetheart?”

 

Alastor swallowed against the dryness of his throat. “I… feel… strange.” The words dragged itself from him, uncertain and slow.

 

“That’s alright,” Vox replied, soothing. “You’ll feel better soon. We’re having a doctor come in.”

 

A doctor?

He blinked up at Vox, confusion loosening his jaw. The man’s gaze softened as though he were already ten steps ahead in a game Alastor barely remembered playing.

 

“Just to make sure you’re getting better,” Vox murmured. “Nothing to worry about.”

 

The Omega nodded weakly. It felt easier to accept the words than to fight them. His head was so heavy. His bones felt filled with sand.

 

Vox leaned down, brushing a feather-light kiss across his cheek.

 

“That’s my good Omega.”

❧

Alastor drifted in and out of awareness as the doctor examined him, the world reduced to flashes of sensation he could neither parse nor escape. A cold stethoscope against his chest. The press of fingers searching for tension along his ribs. A gentle tilt of his chin as someone shone a small light into his dilated eyes. 

 

Everything felt distant, softened by the fog that cocooned his mind. When the doctor spoke, the words blurred together. It was like trying to listen through a thick wall.

 

A faint sting blossomed at his arm - a needle, he realized hazily. He twitched, breath hitching, his heavy eyelids forcing themselves open for a sluggish heartbeat. The room swam. Vox loomed at the edge of his vision, his expression carefully composed, his voice low and warm as he guided him back into stillness.

 

“It’s alright, sweetheart. I’m here.”

 

That tone seeped into him. 

 

“…okay,” Alastor whispered, barely managing the word before his eyes drifted shut again. 

 

His body sagged, unable to support even its own tension. He felt Vox’s hand on him - thumb brushing his cheek, fingers curling protectively against his jaw. The touch anchored him just enough to keep him from slipping completely under.

 

But not enough to let him think.

 

Voices murmured nearby. The doctor’s, clinical and professional. Vox’s, lower, threaded with something unreadable. They were speaking over him and around him, as though he were a sleeping child or an object rather than a participant in the conversation. Alastor heard only fragments but never the words themselves. 

 

His head lolled to the side. He tried to focus but the effort turned molten halfway through. The haze drew him downward, warm and heavy and suffocating in its gentleness.

 

He felt hands adjust the blankets around him. A cool palm pressed briefly to his forehead. Someone murmured his name. Or maybe he dreamed it.

 

He couldn’t tell anymore.

 

The fog was too thick now, warm as syrup and irresistible as sleep. He sank into it without a sound, the world dissolving into soft heat and silence as the last impression he registered was Vox’s shadow leaning protectively over him.

 

And then nothing but the haze swallowing him whole.

❧

Alastor was upright again after several more days, though “upright” was a generous word. 

 

His legs trembled beneath him with every hesitant step he took away from the bed, his body still betraying him with odd lags in balance and sluggish responses that didn’t belong to withdrawal alone. 

 

Vox walked beside him, one hand always hovering at Alastor’s back as though ready to catch him at a moment’s notice. 

 

The breakfast table was set as though for a pleasant domestic morning: a steaming plate of eggs and toast and cut fruit arranged with aesthetic precision. Alastor lowered himself into his seat with immense care, breathing softly through his nose as he tried to make his trembling hands obey him. Every motion felt far too slow. Every blink too heavy. His mind was wrapped in something warm and thick, a haze that refused to dissipate no matter how fiercely he pushed against it.

 

Vox sat at his right side, angled toward him with calculated closeness. His projected face radiated warmth. 

 

“How are you feeling, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice rich with concern and affection.

 

Alastor’s eyes flicked upward, then fell immediately to his plate. 

 

“Acceptable,” he murmured. 

 

He forced his fork through the food, but the act required effort; everything did.

 

A silence followed - an intentional, pressing quiet that seemed designed to make Alastor fill it, to coax him into engaging. Vox tapped a claw lightly against the table, a patient, rhythmic gesture. 

 

“You know,” the Alpha began at last, voice softening further, “I was wondering…”

 

Tap. Tap. Tap.

 

Alastor’s gaze drifted, drawn instinctively by the sound, then returned to his plate. He moved to take another bite - and stopped.

 

A tiny pill sat beside his fork.

 

His breath stuttered. His pupils widened, contracting sharply again as fear slammed through him, quick and brutal. He raised his gaze slowly, dread pooling in his gut - 

 

Vox’s face filled his vision. 

 

The man had leaned close, close enough that Alastor could see the faint distortion in the projected pixels.

 

Alastor jerked violently away, breath tearing free in a strangled sound. “No - no, Vincent - I - .”

 

“Oh, sweetheart,” Vox crooned, his tone dripping a mockery of affection as he reached to cup Alastor’s jaw, “let’s not start with that. I just need access to that lovely head of yours. Only for a moment.” He smiled softly, almost apologetically. 

 

Panic, raw and cold, surged through Alastor. His hand closed around the nearest object - a glass of lemonade - and he threw it with all the desperate force he had. The liquid splashed across Vox’s screen, the glass clipping the metal frame.

 

It accomplished nothing.

 

But Vox paused.

 

Just long enough for Alastor to bolt from his chair, stumbling backward, limbs shaking so violently he nearly toppled with each step. He staggered toward the hallway, half-blind with fear.

 

He didn’t make it two steps.

 

Cables whipped around his ankles, snapping tight, pulling his feet together and yanking him off balance. He hit the floor with a painful crack of bone, his breath leaving him in a choking gasp. More wires slithered across the floor like living things, wrapping his wrists, his thighs, his waist. He struggled but it was useless; every movement only tightened the bindings.

 

Vox dabbed at his screen with a handkerchief, humming lightly, as though the scene unfolding before him were little more than a minor inconvenience. 

 

“We’ll discuss that childish little outburst later,” he said, voice warm and indulgent. “But it’s alright, Alastor.” He folded the cloth neatly and placed it aside. “Everything’s fine now.”

 

He approached with unhurried steps, the spiraling eye widening once more, bright and hungry. Alastor squeezed his eyes shut, twisting his head away with the last scrap of defiance he could muster. Vox’s claws caught his chin and forced him back into position.

 

“Open your eyes, baby.”

 

“Vincent - no - ”

 

“Shhh.” Vox leaned down, his voice barely a whisper. “It’s just me. Now open your eyes.”

 

Alastor kept them tightly shut.

 

The sweetness evaporated.

 

“I said open your fucking eyes.”

 

Alastor spat at him.

 

For a moment, the world stopped. 

 

Vox froze.

 

Then, slowly, he dragged his tongue across the screen, lapping up the spit with obscene relish. 

 

“Mm,” he murmured, smiling wide. “Tastes like rebellion.” His voice darkened. “You’re going to make me work for it today, aren’t you?”

 

He snapped his fingers.

 

Electricity surged through the wires.

 

Alastor screamed.

 

❧

 

He came back to himself gradually, as though rising through thick water. His cheek pressed against cold marble; his limbs trembled uncontrollably. When he forced himself upright onto his knees, the room spun, warping at the edges. Vox stood above him with hands clasped behind his back, serene as a priest.

 

“Thirty years,” Vincent began, quietly. “Thirty years of lies. Of evasion. Of making a fool of me with your little trick.” He chuckled softly, humorless and sharp. “Now aren’t I the idiot?”

 

Alastor lifted his head. His expression was a grinning snarl. 

 

“Oh, Alastor,” Vox breathed, kneeling gracefully before him. His claws traced the side of Alastor’s face, gentle as a lover’s touch. “You have no idea how intoxicating you are when you look at me like that. That fire… that resistance…” His voice dropped lower, reverent. “It’s beautiful.”

 

Alastor tried to jerk his head away, but the wires tightened, forcing stillness.

 

“You were meant to be the mother of my children,” Vox whispered. “My perfect Omega. My partner. My love.”

 

Alastor bared his teeth. “You’re delusional if you think I’d ever willingly carry your spawn. Why don’t you go fuck Valentino and hope he magically sprouts a cunt?”

 

Vox clicked his tongue, amused. “Now, now. No need to be cruel.”

 

“I’m not your love,” Alastor hissed.

 

“Oh, but you are,” Vox murmured. “And deep down, I know you feel it too. We were made for each other. Radio and video.” His grin widened. “A perfect pair.”

 

Alastor scoffed loudly. It was the only defiance he had left. His voice. 

 

Vox pulled him into a tight embrace, holding him firmly against his chest, and stroking his hair with tender precision. “You’re forgiven, baby. Truly.” His voice softened further, almost tender. “Now we can move forward. Build our future. Our family.”

 

A tremor rippled visibly through Alastor’s body.

 

Vox leaned close again, whispering directly into his ear - his voice soft and horrifyingly intimate. “But you understand actions have consequences. This won’t happen again. We’re going to correct this. We can fix this, baby.” He drew back just far enough to meet Alastor’s eyes. “Together.”

 

The wires tightened further, lifting Alastor off the ground by inches. He gasped, ears pressing flat against his skull.

 

“You know,” Vox mused, adjusting his tie with casual elegance, “I’ve heard that shock therapy is very effective for Omegas with… antiquated sensibilities. Especially those from your era, sweetheart.”

 

“Vincent.” Alastor’s voice cracked, low and warning. “Don’t.”

 

Vox smiled lovingly. “Let’s consider this part of your recovery.”

 

“Vincent - !”

 

Electricity tore through him again.

 

And Alastor screamed.

❧

Slowly - painfully - Alastor dragged himself across the polished floor, his claws scraping weakly against its perfect surface. Every inch he gained felt stolen, bought at the cost of another pulse of agony that rippled through his limbs. His body spasmed unpredictably, nerves still misfiring from the electrical assault. He wanted to curl inward and howl -  wanted to bare his teeth and rend something to pieces -  but all he could manage was a low, rattling breath that barely reached the back of his throat. The tremors shook him so sharply that he had to pause, cheek pressed against the cold tile, the doe waiting for the world to stop twisting.

 

Vox had left him there and simply stepped over his prone form with a satisfied hum. He hadn’t even bothered to return him to the bed. The wires had been withdrawn, leaving Alastor limp and trembling, and Vox had offered nothing more than a cheerful, “Rest up, sweetheart. We’ll continue later.”

But it wasn’t the threat to himself that hollowed him out. It was the casual mention of Angel Dust. A single, offhand comment uttered with a bright smile and a lilt of amusement, as though discussing a neighbor and not the one of the few souls in Hell Alastor trusted. Vox’s tone had been gentle. Too gentle. 

 

“We’ll have a little talk about your friend later,” he’d said, stroking the side of Alastor’s face with affectionate claws while the Omega trembled helplessly beneath him. “I’m sure he’ll understand the importance of honesty once everything’s sorted.”

 

That alone had ignited something raw and violent inside Alastor’s chest.

 

Rage.

 

It rolled through him in hideous waves - frustratingly impotent, trapped within a body that lacked strength. He could not unleash it. Couldn’t sharpen it into action. Couldn’t tear, couldn’t kill, couldn’t do anything but feel it scorch him from the inside out.

 

He’d always been forced to turn that violence inward.

 

Self-inflicted punishments disguised as coping - drinking himself into oblivion, digging claws into his palms until crescent wounds bloomed beneath the fur, forcing calm onto himself with small acts of pain and pleasure that distracted, muted and muffled the flame Vox so adored. 

 

That spark he’d praised was the very thing Alastor had spent decades trying to bury - to conserve. 

 

Something in him refused to surrender. To break. 

 

He hissed through clenched teeth as another tremor ran down his spine, but he pushed his body forward again, scraping elbows against the tile. He would not stay crumpled on the floor. He would not allow Vox the pleasure of lifting him gently - of tucking him into bed, smoothing his hair and whispering assurances while preparing for the next round of “correction.”

 

No. He would move on his own. Even if it took every last ounce of strength he had left. Even if he collapsed midway. Even if it cost him blood or bone. Anything was preferable to letting Vox see him as helpless. 

 

His breath hitched. His limbs quaked. His vision pulsed with dark spots that came and went like phantoms.

 

But Alastor crawled.

 

He dragged himself inch by inch across the gleaming floor, jaw clenched so tightly that his teeth ached - his eyes burning with a fury that refused to dim. He would not be broken. He would not give Vox the satisfaction. He would never allow that man to believe he had won.

 

Even if Alastor had to crawl across the floor like a wounded animal to prove it.

 

He refused to be broken. 

 

Not by Vox. Not by Hell. Not by fate itself.

 

❧

 

He didn’t make it to the bedroom. The floor held him now, cold tile pressing against his cheek and the world dissolving  into a dark blur. His last coherent thought was a half-formed curse before consciousness guttered out like a candle beneath a gust.

 

He floated for a time. Then - suddenly - he felt arms sliding beneath him. Large, steady hands lifting him as though he weighed nothing at all. He didn’t struggle. Couldn’t. His head lolled loosely against a solid chest, his breath stuttering in shallow, pained bursts. For a moment he thought it was Vox again, come to collect his broken toy and tuck it neatly back into place.

 

But then the scent hit him.

 

Brimstone.

 

It flooded his senses, iron-sharp and unmistakable; settling on his tongue like ash and heat. He knew that smell. Knew it too well. It crawled along his nerves in a way that was both alarming and strangely grounding. He fought to open his eyes, lids twitching faintly, a feeble instinct forcing him back toward awareness despite the haze clinging to his mind.

 

The darkness thinned. Just barely.

 

There was breath against his temple - warm and heavy. A low, familiar rumble vibrated through the chest he was pressed against.

 

“Well,” a voice drawled, darkly pleased, “you look like shit.”

 

Adam. 

Chapter 24: 24

Alastor feared that this was nothing but another illusion crafted by Vox’s circuitry and cruelty. That he would blink and find himself sprawled across that marital bed, body used and limp and obedient under the guise of “love.” That he’d rediscover the bruised imprint of static along his spine and realize this, too, was just another hallucination forced upon him while Vox eagerly emptied himself into his body. 

 

His claws curled desperately into Adam’s robes, a frail anchor against the tidal pull of disbelief. The fabric bunched under his trembling fingers and Adam made no move to pry him off. He only shifted his hold so that the Omega rested more securely in the cradle of his arms. A bridal carry, humiliating in theory, but in this moment Alastor felt something dangerously close to safety. He remained limp and half-conscious, but he could feel the reassuring strength of Adam’s grip. 

 

They were airborne, There was a weightlessness to everything. His gut dipped in that unmistakable way and a thin, unfocused gasp escaped him. He turned his head, cheek brushing against Adam’s chest before he forced his eyes open.

 

Pentagram City stretched beneath them like a fever dream made divine. Beautiful in its depravity and utterly obscene in its symmetry. Towers, cathedrals, casino halls and neon signs that bled brilliant color into the red-lit day. A metropolis for sinners. It was vast. A world he’d been barred from properly experiencing for decades.

 

From above - from this impossible height - he felt something akin to freedom.

 

A painful, unfamiliar swell tightened in his throat. He didn’t have the strength to cry, but something inside him lurched as though he might. For the first time in thirty years, he wasn’t behind glass. Wasn’t being watched. Wasn’t being monitored. Wasn’t being molded.

 

He shut his eyes again as the wind lashed against his face, sharp and cold enough to sting the raw places Vox hadn’t had time to cover. Adam’s wings beat against the air with the steady, thunderous rhythm of something ancient and powerful, the gusts whipping through Alastor’s fur, tugging at his ears and stealing breath from his lungs.

 

Instinctively, he burrowed closer. Adjusting to press his face into the warmth of Adam’s collarbone, hiding from the wind and the light and the too-large world. Adam huffed a low, amused sound but didn’t protest. One clawed hand shifted along the curve of Alastor’s back, bracing him and shielding him from the worst of the air.

 

He did not look back.

The doe did not dare glance over Adam’s shoulder at the penthouse slowly shrinking behind them. That glass cage of marriage and duty and performance. That shrine of a life built on lies and suffocation. He refused to think of Vox’s outstretched hands. Refused to think of Valentino’s mocking grin. Nor Velvette’s tightening lace. 

 

He refused to think of the Vees who paraded him like a pampered pet. Refused to think of the wires that had cinched around his throat and limbs. Wires that might even now be retracting, recoiling and ready to be weaponized again.

 

‘Home.’
 

That word no longer belonged to that place.

 He crushed it out of his mind like a dying ember.

 

It was a beautiful, glamorized prison. Not a home. 

 

The sky tilted, the wind dulled and the sound of Adam’s wings softened to a distant thrum. Consciousness slipped from Alastor’s grasp like sand through trembling fingers. He felt himself go slack in Adam’s arms, his eyes falling shut as he slipped into a state of unconsciousness. 

 

❧

 

He’d been tortured for an hour.

 

A single, exact hour. Because Vox wanted it measured. Wanted it calibrated, catalogued and recorded in the same cold, clinical way he approached every upgrade he’d ever installed. An hour was long enough to burn itself into memory, long enough to break most Omegas completely and long enough to make a point without risking permanent damage.

 

It felt far longer, of course. For Alastor, it might as well have been a century.

 

Vox had timed each wave of electricity with sickening precision. A timer was present at the right corner of his screen, displaying the exact minutes and seconds he intended to invest toward his wife’s ‘treatment’. Every jolt that wracked Alastor’s frail Omega body had been delivered with exacting force, enough to send him arching violently, his vision fracturing into white noise and panic.

 

By the twentieth minute, Alastor couldn’t tell where the agony ended and his body began. He couldn’t breathe properly. Every attempt dragged a fresh lance of pain through his lungs. His throat burned from swallowed screams. His claws gouged lines into the floor only for the wires to yank him upright again, repositioning him like a puppet.

 

By the fortieth, he stopped fighting.

Not because he broke but because his body simply couldn’t move. The shocks left him trembling so violently his teeth chattered; his limbs spasmed without rhythm; his mind blurred at the edges. He could only grit his teeth and hold onto whatever sliver of self he could guard.

 

By the sixtieth minute, he was no longer sure the agony was external. It felt as though something was burning inside him - his nerves overcharged, his instincts screaming and his pride thrashing like a dying animal. Vox had wanted a confession and tore it from him one shuddering syllable at a time.

 

“Tell me,” Vox had said, voice smooth but eyes narrowed to a slit of cold calculation. “Tell me how you lied to me. Tell me how you tricked me for thirty years.”

 

A jolt would follow whenever Alastor tried to grit his jaw shut. Whenever he spat insults instead of answers. Whenever that spark flared in his eyes. 

 

But eventually. He is forced to acquiesce - each word forced out with petulance. 

 

“Again,” Vox would drawl, almost tenderly. “Say it again, sweetheart. This time without the tone.”

 

Alastor trembled  - but he refused to give Vox the satisfaction of seeing him shattered. Even as the confession  ripped itself out of him it never really carried the submission Vox wanted.

 

There was still fire in Alastor’s gaze. Not the softened warmth of a bonded, docile Omega. But instead a hellish brilliance that had been forcibly lurched to the surface. Something ancient and furious - something that should never have been caged.

 

Something that had drawn every monster in his life toward him like moths to flame.

 

Vox stared down at him afterward - not triumphant, not vindicated, but almost… intoxicated. As though Alastor’s defiance thrilled him more deeply than obedience ever could.

 

“That,” he murmured, crouching beside Alastor’s crumpled form, claws trailing lightly through singed fur, “is why Alphas fall in love with you.”

 

Alastor tried to speak. Couldn’t. His throat spasmed around a sound that wasn’t quite a word.

 

Vox smiled. 

 

“That spark of yours… God, it’s beautiful.”

 

And even then - even broken, scorched and limp upon  the floor - Alastor refused to let his eyes dim.

 

❧

He was placed in a bed with a gentleness so at odds with the brutality he’d endured that it nearly broke him. The sheets were cool; the room dim; the scent unfamiliar yet blessedly free of static and ozone. But Alastor didn’t feel the mattress because he refused to let go of Adam.

 

His claws were still tangled in the thick folds of the Fallen Angel’s robe, clinging with the brittle desperation of someone dragged from the edge of a precipice. When Adam’s hands moved over him, they were surprisingly careful. They swept over his scorched nerves and trembling limbs with a warmth that soothed rather than startled, grounding him in a way Alastor hadn’t felt in decades.

 

But then the touch began to retreat and panic surged through Alastor so violently it almost sent him reeling.

 

His claws dug deeper into the fabric.

 

“No,” he rasped, voice breaking on the single syllable. “No, Adam.”

 

Don’t leave me. 

 

Don’t leave me. Don’t leave - 

 

There was a pause.

 

Then the mattress dipped. A heavy, solid body slid in beside him and Alastor was pulled seamlessly into powerful arms. No force. No coercion. Just presence - immense and steady and real. Adam gathered him against his chest. And the Omega, exhausted beyond language, allowed himself to fold into the embrace.

 

Alastor pressed his face into the man’s chest. The scent was heat and brimstone and something older - something that wrapped around instinct like a heavy cloak. A creature like Adam should have frightened him. Should have set every nerve on edge.

 

Instead, Alastor exhaled and felt his body finally start to unwind.

 

“Stay,” he whispered, the plea slipping out before he could stop it.

 

A low rumble vibrated through Adam’s chest, slow and reassuring, like distant thunder responding to a storm-battered earth.

 

“‘Course, babe,” he rumbled.

 

A broad hand slid up and down Alastor’s side, tracing soothing lines along his ribs and hip, grounding him with each pass. The touch hinted toward possession. But the Omega did not protest. 

 

Alastor’s breathing eased. His muscles unlatched one by one. His body, still thrumming with remnants of agony, softened into the warmth beside him. It had been so many years since he’d been held without expectation. Without performance. Without someone waiting for him to falter.

 

His fingers loosened, though he didn’t let go. Not completely.

 

And for the first time since the wires bit into his flesh, he felt the faintest, trembling flicker of safety.

❧

He learned of his new status before he fully understood where he was.

 

An  immaculately dressed imp approached the moment he reawakened in a lavish room. The creature bowed, their mannerisms and movements precise. 

 

“Sir Alastor,” the imp intoned, voice clipped and formal. “You’ve been formally acknowledged as a royal guest. His Grace requests that you prepare yourself accordingly.”

 

Royal guest.

 

The title felt surreal. Alastor sat upright, still aching and still fogged around the edges. Adam was gone; the imprint of his weight remained faintly warmed on the mattress beside him. The absence gnawed at him, but he had no time to dwell. The imp stepped forward with neatly folded garments resting against their chest.

 

After he was ushered toward a bathing chamber and had been allowed to wash himself, the imp presented his clothing. The blouse was gorgeously tailored: a deep cream with delicate stitching and soft against his still-sensitive shoulders. The trousers were slim, finely made and crafted from dark, high-quality fabric that hugged his legs without binding them. The undergarments were simple cotton and the simplicity momentarily snagged at his focus. 

 

The imp circled him once he was clothed; adjusting the collar, straightening a sleeve and brushing off a speck of lint. Alastor realized that every seam aligned perfectly to his shape. Not a hair too wide nor too narrow.

 

Someone had taken his measurements.

 

Not recently.

 

Exactly.

 

A quiet shiver traveled up his spine.

 

“Please be seated,” the imp instructed.

 

He obeyed. A stool was placed behind him. Three more imps entered the room with the silence of trained attendants. They approached with brushes, oils, and polish - their tools and products absurd in their quality. One took his hooves, buffing them with steady, meticulous strokes. Another brushed his fur until it lay smooth and glossy along his neck and arms. His claws were shaped delicately, shined until the tips caught the light like dark gems. 

 

He didn’t protest.

 

Not because he feared reprimand - but because he was afraid that if he spoke, the moment would fracture.

 

He watched them work and realized, with an uneasy weight in his chest, that this was how royalty expected guests to be handled. Not as pets nor mere playthings. 

 

But as if they were important and worthy of such treatment. 

 

When the attendants finally stepped back as one they bowed.

 

And then came the meal.

 

Imps returned bearing silver platters, the lids lifted to reveal roasted vegetables, tender cuts of meat and a bowl of fragrant broth. Everything was seasoned perfectly; balanced, savory and likely crafted with the hand of a chef rather than a mere servant of middling experience. A glass of water, cold and pure, was poured with silent precision.

 

They arrayed the food before him with the reverence one might grant an ambassador.

 

Alastor’s stomach rebelled at the sight but he forced himself to at least begin. He ate slowly, each bite measured and his appetite dulled by a combination of fear and exhaustion.

 

When he stopped halfway, the senior imp stepped closer.

 

“It is expected that you complete the entire meal, sir,” they said, polite yet firm. 

 

A request, not a threat.

 

Still… 

Alastor inclined his head in quiet acknowledgement and resumed eating. The imps stood like statues, watching with an expression betrayed dutiful vigilance. When he finally cleared the plate, they gathered the dishes with smooth, effortless motions. 

 

He tracked their movements with sharp interest. He had never been taught the finer points of royal etiquette, only the crude expectations of an Omega in societal hierarchy. This was something else entirely.

 

It felt like stepping into a world made of rules he only vaguely understood. 

 

And for the first time in far too long, he wasn’t certain whether he was being groomed for comfort or for judgment.

❧

He was left alone for the first time since waking. The sudden quiet pressed in around him and Alastor found himself drifting toward the tall window. The glass framed a sweeping view of the palace gardens; immaculate lawns carved into elegant symmetry, rows of rosebushes trimmed into perfection and fountains catching the infernal sunlight in shimmering arcs. Even from a distance, he could see the staff moving through the grounds like clockwork. 

 

Everything was orderly and precise. 

 

He pressed his claw tips to the cool glass, forcing his pulse to slow. He had been informed that he would be meeting His Majesty soon. That fact carved a hollow through the center of his chest. He had one chance to ensure this wasn’t all for nothing.

 

He checked the mirror again. A ridiculous instinct, borne from decades spent as a curated accessory beside his husband, but a part of him still clung to it. Presentability mattered. Composure mattered. The King would have eyes sharper than blades and  Alastor needed to convince him he was worth saving. 

 

He adjusted the collar of his blouse. Smoothed the line of his hair. Straightened his posture until his shoulders aligned and his chin lifted.

 

Leave a good impression, he reminded himself. A second one. A real one.

 

He had time to prepare this time. 

 

He needed to be ready to surrender anything that ensured his survival.

 

Anything.

 

He swallowed hard, his throat tightening at the thought. If Lucifer demanded payment, he would offer it. If Lucifer demanded everything, he would consider it. Shame mattered little if the alternative meant being dragged back to Vox’s penthouse, his mind slowly hollowed and remade until he was nothing but a loving, obedient shadow.

 

He pressed a hand to his chest. His palm hovered over the fabric as dread coiled low in his belly.

 

Not once had he made a deal in life or death. Not with a demon. Not even with Vox. He had survived this long without signing away a portion of his soul. The thought that he might have done so unknowingly - that Vox might have somehow coerced him in his drunken or subdued states - struck like a shard of ice behind his ribs.

 

His breath hitched.

 

No. He would remember. He would know.

 

Wouldn’t he?

 

He forced the spiraling thought out of his mind with a sharp, deliberate inhale. Then another. No use collapsing into panic now, not when he stood on the threshold of the only salvation he could imagine.

 

He stepped away from the mirror and folded his hands behind his back to keep them from trembling.

 

He would make a deal if he must. A binding one. A dangerous one. Whatever Lucifer asked, he would give.

 

But what could a King of Hell possibly want from the likes of him?

 

Lucifer had wealth beyond comprehension. An entire empire built on reverence and fear. Souls at his fingertips. And a city that would bend under his will.

 

Even Overlords submitted themselves to his judgement. 

 

What could Alastor - a battered Omega, a fugitive spouse and a relic of a world long dead - possibly offer such a man?

 

And yet, despite the crushing uncertainty, a thrill of something dark and hopeful threaded through him.

 

Lucifer had sent for him.

 

That meant something.

 

It had to.

 

He straightened once more, forcing his spine tall and his eyes clear - his grin frozen upon his face.

 

Chapter 25: 25

He wasn’t surprised when Adam arrived to escort him. The man had been a constant, unyielding presence during his brief moments of lucidity after rescue. And the impression Adam had carved into him thirty years prior had not faded with time. If anything, the contrast between memory and reality had only intensified - the same imposing silhouette and the same arrogant swagger.

 

Adam walked ahead with casual purpose, guiding him through the winding, palatial halls of Morningstar Castle - an architectural labyrinth that seemed designed to amuse the King and confound everyone else. Alastor followed with stiff poise, refusing to betray even a whisper of unease in his posture. He did not wish to speak but Adam clearly wasn’t the sort to leave quiet untouched.

 

“Shit, babe,” Adam drawled over his shoulder, tail flicking lazily. “Been a fuckin’ while. What… ‘round thirty years now?”

 

Alastor allowed his gaze to fix straight ahead, expression composed to an immaculate neutrality. His steps were measured, elegant and every movement a careful reclaiming of dignity. He supposed the Fallen expected an answer.

 

“Yes,” he murmured, voice smooth but hollowed at the edges. “It has been quite some time.”

 

Adam made a low, amused sound. 

“I’d ask how married life’s treatin’ ya, but I think I got the fuckin’ memo. He did a real number on you, sweetheart. What’d you do to wind him up that bad?”

 

A sharp question and a intrusive one. Alastor’s eyes flickered briefly toward him before forward again. He considered how much Adam knew. How much he should know.

 

“The usual offenses,” he replied lightly, smoothing his tone into something vaguely dismissive. “I merely failed to behave as the perfect, pliant spouse he envisioned.”

 

Adam barked a laugh, rough and delighted.

“Really now? C’mon… was this one of those ‘fuck around and find out’ situations or somethin’ more poetic?”

 

Alastor exhaled a soft, aggrieved sigh. There was no point in concealing the truth; Adam would pry until he reached the marrow. So Alastor offered the explanation in clipped, efficient detail; granting only what was necessary. When he finished, the Fallen Angel released a long, low whistle.

 

“So he’s been fuckin’ ya steady for thirty damn years,” Adam summarized, far too loudly. “And you dodged gettin’ knocked up all that time? Hell. I’m impressed.”

 

A faint, razor-edged smile graced Alastor’s lips. 

“All it required was a careful application of wit,” he said, smoothly. “He had blind spots. I merely exploited them.”

 

Adam grinned wide, wickedly appreciative.

“Smart bitch, aren’t ya?”

 

Alastor lifted his chin with cool elegance, the faintest glimmer of theatrical arrogance returning to him like a half-remembered melody.

“I do attempt to perform adequately,” he replied. “Though your flattery is always such a balm, my dear Adam.”

 

The Fallen Angel snorted again. 

“Keep talkin’ pretty like that, sweetheart, and I might start thinkin’ you actually missed me.”

 

Alastor’s smile sharpened.

“Perish the thought,” he drawled, smoothly. 

 

❧

He waited before the grand doors like a condemned soul awaiting judgment. The chamber guards flanked him in perfect stillness. Adam had entered ahead of him with the easy swagger of someone for whom royal authority was as natural as breath. Alastor felt the full weight of thirty long, anxiety-inducing, punishing years settle upon his narrow shoulders.

 

He stood poised, but inwardly tight as a drawn bowstring. He thought of the single letter he had sent so long ago. It served as an act born from desperation, stitched together in haste as marriage loomed over him like an executioner’s axe. He could barely recall the exact phrasing now, only that it had been a plea. A request for audience. A hope that someone greater might intervene before Vox’s love finally devoured him whole.

 

And now, after decades of silence, he was being summoned.

 

When the doors began to open, the sound echoed like the slow grind of fate correcting its course. Alastor drew his hands together neatly at his waist, fingers interlaced with meticulous care. He stepped forward with ceremonial grace even as unease coiled down his spine.

 

The chamber beyond was vast, cathedral-high and awash in opulent red light. At its center rose the throne; monstrous in scale and ornate in design. And beside it stood Adam.

 

Even without speaking, the Fallen Angel commanded the room. His wings, half-furled, cast long shadows across the marble. The robe he wore caught the gleam of infernal chandeliers, his figure rendered imposing in ways no mortal memory could fully recover.

 

It was impossible not to look at him first.

 

Alastor’s gaze locked instinctively onto the familiar silhouette; the broad chest, the talons, the grin carved with predatory amusement. Adam bared his teeth in greeting, his masked face splitting into something sharp and pleased. 

 

The reaction was unmistakable: a silent, delighted acknowledgment. An eagerness to see the events unfold before him. 

 

And for a fleeting moment Alastor felt as though he were back at the very beginning. A trapped creature glimpsing the eyes of something ancient… something dangerous; something that may yet decide whether he deserved salvation or destruction.

 

He swallowed, stiffened his posture and stepped fully into the throne room.

 

Lucifer did not look at him at first.

 

He reclined upon his throne as though born into it, a figure carved from poise and dominion. A ribbon of golden script hovered before him - an impossibly long, constantly unfurling document that glowed with restrained divinity. His crimson eyes tracked each line with absent precision, the text folding and reforming at the slightest flick of his fingers. He didn’t so much as incline his head at Alastor’s arrival.

 

The quiet was oppressive.

 

Alastor eased forward on careful hooves, each step absorbed by the cavernous space. He inhaled once - twice - before centering himself before lowering to the floor. His body moved with the easy reflex of learned subservience, folding neatly into a full prostration. Nose to the marble, palms flat, knees tucked in. It startled him, how easily he remembered the posture. How natural it felt to bow before true power.

 

The silence stretched. Long enough that the back of his neck prickled.

 

Then, finally -... 

 

“You may rise, Alastor.”

 

His name from the King’s lips struck like a physical thing. He mastered his reaction, allowing only the faintest twitch of his ears before he rose with fluid grace. His smile remained fixed but subdued, tempered into something polite and court-ready. He clasped his hands before him and held perfectly still.

 

Lucifer regarded him now.

 

He set aside the golden script, allowing it to dissolve into dust. His posture shifted only slightly - one leg draped over the other, his chin resting upon a curled fist. The movement was languid and controlled. 

 

“I am generally aware,” Lucifer began, his voice smooth as lacquer, “of your present circumstances.” His gaze sharpened just enough to cut. “And that while your petition has been accepted, you stand before me without the explicit permission of your husband.”

 

Alastor’s fingers tightened faintly but he refused to let his smile waver.

 

“Yes, Your Majesty,” he replied, tone soft yet resolute. “I seek to negotiate a deal - to secure a future more suitable to my… particular situation. I find myself, regrettably, left wanting.”

 

Lucifer angled his head with quiet curiosity. The faint upward flick of his brow was more than most received. His crimson gaze swept Alastor from antler to hoof. 

 

“Well,” he said, each syllable threaded with chilly amusement, “do continue.”

 

Alastor inclined his head. “My current life is unsatisfactory. My personal aspirations are ill-met within my husband’s care.”

 

A sliver of interest slid into Lucifer’s expression.

 

“Oh?” he intoned. “Would this dissatisfaction be rooted in your… lack of progeny? Is it simply that your expectations of motherhood remain unfulfilled?”

 

The tightening of Alastor’s smile caused his face to twitch slightly. His jaw ached with the restraint it took not to bare his teeth.

 

“No, Your Majesty,” he said. “It is not the absence of children that plagues me.” A breath, steady and careful. “I desire a life beyond the confines of my assigned station.”

 

“Bold words,” Lucifer observed, his tone almost languid.  “Bold words paired with a rather telling undertone of recalcitrance… and, dare I say, a striking lack of appreciation.” His crimson gaze sharpened. “You have been afforded a life of luxury, Alastor. A life many of your designation would call enviable. You are, by all accounts, a cherished wife. A pampered rarity.”

 

Alastor’s smile tightened, but he refused to bow beneath it. “I have no desire,” he said gently, with the kind of politeness that carried its own razor edge, “to spend the remainder of eternity in Hell as a kept  Omega, Your Majesty.”

 

A quiet sound slipped from Lucifer - something not quite a laugh yet undeniably amused. His brow lifted just slightly, as though regarding a curious insect that had somehow learned to speak.

 

“Is that so?”

 

“It is.” Alastor straightened, finding a thread of momentum to wind himself around. “I seek to rise above my station,” he continued, voice steadying into something smoother. “To reclaim a purpose beyond procreation and mindless obedience.”

 

He let the words settle, their weight reverberating through the Throne Room. His heart beat sharply in his chest, but he held Lucifer’s gaze, refusing to look away.

 

The King’s lips curved - not a smile, but the faintest suggestion of one. 

 

“How very interesting,” Lucifer replied, a low purr beneath the words. “It seems you truly have come to me seeking more than rescue.”

 

His eyes flickered, and for a moment, he looked pleased.

 

Predatorily so.

 

“Tell me, Alastor,” Lucifer said at last, his tone deceptively mild. “What prize would soothe that restless ambition of yours?”

 

The question struck like a bell.

 

 Alastor hesitated only long enough for the pause to feel intentional.

Then he raised his chin and gave the truth plainly.

 

“Power, Your Majesty. Real power. I wish to stand above the rest - equal to any Overlord, if not their better. I desire to be the most powerful Sinner in Hell.”

 

A flicker of something indescribable passed through Lucifer’s eyes. He leaned back, crossing one leg over the other, fingers tapping once against the arm of his throne.

 

“Ambitious,” he murmured. “And specific.”

 

Alastor inclined his head. “I’ve wasted enough of eternity in captivity. I would see my skills put to proper use.”

 

Lucifer’s gaze sharpened, the crimson of his eyes glowing faintly as he studied the Omega before him.

When he spoke again, his voice carried a faint edge of incredulity.

 

“You are asking,” the King said, slowly, “for me to undo the Curse of Eve.”

 

There was no anger in his tone - only cool analysis. 

 

“That curse,” Lucifer continued, folding his hands neatly, “is woven into the marrow of every Omega’s soul. It is not a chain. It is a law. My Father’s law.” A faint note of distaste coated the word. “To circumvent it is no simple task.”

 

Alastor’s smile never wavered. He stood with his hands loosely folded before him, looking for all the world like a well-behaved nobleman - and yet there was a glitter behind his eyes.

 

“I wouldn’t stand before you, Your Majesty, if I sought anything simple.”

 

Lucifer gave a soft huff of laughter. 

 

“Of course you wouldn’t,” he said. “You Sinners never do.”

 

He leaned forward slightly, elbows upon his knees, studying Alastor as one might admire a curious artifact.

 

“You wish to shed your nature. Your designed purpose.”

 

Alastor’s smile hardened just a fraction.

“I wish to shed anything that impedes me.”

 

Lucifer regarded him for a moment longer, his expression unreadable. 

 

“At least,” the King said finally, “your honesty is refreshing.”

 

A sudden flare of crimson light washed across the throne room. Alastor recoiled with a startled gasp as something manifested before him, coalescing out of the radiance like a thought given shape.

 

A staff.

 

Tall. Gleaming. Wicked.

 

Its head resembled a stylized microphone twisted into infernal elegance. Quiet whispers spilled from it. Promising - 

 

- power.

 

Lucifer’s smooth voice rolled over him as he fixated upon the item.

 

“I cannot undo the Curse of Eve. But I can... adjust the parameters of your existence.”

 

Lucifer extended one elegant hand toward the staff. It vibrated faintly, as though yearning to be claimed.

 

“I can amplify the potency of your soul. This relic will forge a tether with you. An artificial augmentation.”

Lucifer’s eyes gleamed, brilliant and terrible.

“As long as the staff remains intact, so too will the power it grants you. With it, you will ascend beyond the reach of any Overlord. Rival them. Dominate them. Destroy them, should you desire.”

 

Alastor couldn’t help himself.
 

He reached out.

 

His claws brushed the air just shy of the artifact - his expression was alight with fevered longing. 

 

And then the staff vanished.

 

Snuffed out like a candle flame.

 

The shock struck him with the force of a kick to the ribs. His hand hung suspended a moment longer, trembling in place as the afterimage burned behind his eyes.

 

Lucifer reclined further back upon his throne, maintaining a leisurely poise.

 

“But first,” the King said, the faintest curl to his lips, “you must pay a price.”

 

Of course.
 

There it was.

Alastor lowered his hand slowly. He folded both before him, regaining his previous position, his face smoothing into a serene expression. Though his pulse thundered behind his ribs. 

 

He drew in a measured breath.

 

“And what,” he asked, voice low and reverent, “is it that Your Majesty desires?”

 

Lucifer’s fingers swept along the razor-straight edge of his own jaw, a gesture almost idle, though nothing the King did was ever without purpose. His eyes drifted - first to the vaulted ceiling, then to the far pillars, then lazily across the marble floor - before finally settling upon Alastor again with a deceptively mild interest.

 

“I’ve been watching you for quite some time, Alastor,” he disclosed. “Not closely, mind you - I hardly have the luxury. But glimpses? Yes. Moments. Passing curiosities indulged between matters of far greater import.”

 

Alastor did not move. He barely breathed. His expression remained a perfect mask. Only the faintest tightening at the corner of his eyes betrayed the tension rippling beneath the surface.

 

“Every soul that falls into my domain,” Lucifer continued, “is afforded my… attention. A cursory examination, at minimum. A review of their nature, their inclinations and their flaws. Enough for me to attune the environment that will shape them. Hell is reactive, you see - not a fixed punishment, but an echo. A reflection.”

 

He lifted a hand and flicked it lazily. A conjured image blossomed between them; Alastor as he once lived. Mortal. Human. Beautiful. Unscarred by death or divine curses. A dark-skinned, slender man with keen eyes and a wicked smile, dressed in antiquated elegance.

 

“In life,” Lucifer said, voice velvety and cold, “you circumvented the fate Heaven assigned to you. You defied the mold crafted for Omegas. You refused docility. You refused safety. You refused what was deemed ‘holy order.’”

 

He smiled. 

 

“You were destined to draw the gaze of any Alpha susceptible to your… peculiar allure. Draw it, inflame it and amplify it in turn.”

 

Alastor’s composure faltered. Just barely. A single blink too slow. A tightening in the throat. His fingers curled inward, knuckles whitening before being forced back to stillness.

 

Lucifer watched the reaction with mild amusement.

 

“When you flaunted yourself in my presence thirty years ago,” the King went on, “I found myself intrigued. Your soul is - ” he paused, searching for the appropriate word, “ - luminous. Brighter than most Omegas, certainly. And I wondered what shape your curse might take with a nudge.”

 

Adam snorted in unmistakable amusement, arms crossing over his broad chest. His grin was wide and sharp, as if he’d known all along.

 

Alastor could not speak. His breath hitched faintly, caught between outrage and dawning horror.

 

“Y - Your Majesty…?” His voice was barely above a whisper.

 

Lucifer folded his hands neatly atop one another, posture impeccable as he delivered the truth with clinical precision.

 

“I amplified your inherent curse. Intensified the effect. You became - quite without meaning to - an irresistible lure to Alphas of a certain temperament. Your presence agitates them. Unsettles them. Draws their instinct and their obsession like blood in the water.”

 

The King’s smile grew.

 

“You became a siren the moment I touched you, my dear Alastor.”

 

Alastor felt the floor tilt beneath him.

 

Vox’s fixation.

 

Valentino’s fascination.

 

Adam’s interest.

 

Thirty years of unrelenting attention. Of quiet suffering. Of denials being disregarded - ignored. 

 

His stomach rolled.

 

Lucifer’s voice softened to a near-whisper, though the cruelty beneath it remained.

 

“And your husband? Vox? He never stood a chance once he touched you.”

 

Alastor swallowed hard - his pulse thundering - the world threatening to shift. 

 

He felt sick.

 

He felt furious.

 

He felt used.

 

He felt terrified.

 

Lucifer simply watched him absorb the truth.

 

“There must be some way to undo it - some means to… to reverse—”

His voice faltered. Desperation cracked the edges.

 

Lucifer’s smile was immediate.

 

“My dear Alastor,” he crooned, 'apologetically', “I’m afraid not.”

 

Those three words slid into the air like silk and ice. Final. Absolute. A verdict delivered with the casual authority of a god.

 

“The affliction you carry - the allure, the instability you provoke in certain Alphas - will follow you for the remainder of eternity. It is permanent. A brand etched upon the soul, not the flesh.” His eyes gleamed, cold as a starless sky. “Only Heaven unravels what Heaven creates. And Heaven has abandoned you.”

 

Alastor’s breath hitched sharply. Vision feathering at the periphery as panic crawled up his spine. He could feel his pulse in his throat, strangled and frantic. He fought it - forced himself to stand straight and forced the trembling in his knees to settle - but the air tasted like copper and dread.

 

Lucifer watched every stuttered inhale. Every flash of terror. Every attempt to muster poise.

 

And he smiled.

 

“I am,” the devil said, voice dipping into something low and resonant, “the architect of your torment.”

 

The words struck like a blade sliding between ribs. 

 

“But,” he continued, rising from his throne in a single fluid motion, “I am also willing to serve as your savior.”

 

One step carried him forward. Just one - and yet he crossed the distance as though the room itself bent to accommodate him. The click of his heel echoed like a death knell.

 

Alastor couldn’t retreat. His body refused to move. His wide eyes fixed on the approaching King.

 

Lucifer stopped before him. His presence pressed against Alastor’s skin like heat and shadow, his eyes alight with a polished, predatory malice.

 

“Look at you,” Lucifer drawled. “Such horror. Such hope. Such exquisite fear.” He circles Alastor - a predator wrapped in angel’s flesh. “You understand now why they want you. Why they need you”

 

Alastor’s voice scraped out, raw. He can’t speak. Not properly. It comes out as a choked gasp.  

 

The King’s smile deepened - unkind yet covetous. 

 

“You can be saved. If only,” Lucifer whispered, silk wrapped in razors, “you make a deal, pet.”

 

The room seemed to tilt. Air hollowed out.

 

A deal.

.
The only thing that could save him.

 

He felt the weight of eternity pressing in on all sides.

 

Lucifer leaned just slightly closer, eyes glowing like embers in an ancient furnace.

 

“Choose wisely,” he purred. “For the terms will bind you far more tightly… than any Alpha ever could.”

Chapter 26: 26

Alastor shut his eyes.

 

Just for a moment.

Just long enough to gather the tatters of his composure and stitch them into something resembling dignity. Breath shuddered in his chest but he forced it steady. He would not crack here. Not under that gaze. Not with Adam lounging in the periphery like a jackal eager to witness the kill.

 

His face smoothed by degrees.

The horror that had twisted at his features eased, dissolving into a hollow neutrality. His jaw unclenched. His shoulders dropped. The tension in his fists bled out until his claws hung slack at his sides.

 

Only when he was certain that nothing wild or traitorous would escape his lips did he open his eyes again.

 

They snapped immediately to Lucifer.

 

The King watched him with a detached curiosity - like one might observe am insect trying to climb out of a flame. There was no empathy there. No warmth. Just a cool, clinical intrigue.

 

Alastor exhaled quietly and spoke.

 

“I have nothing to barter,” he said. His tone was soft, but not meek. “Nothing of value to a man of your station, Your Majesty.”

 

Lucifer’s lips curved ever so slightly, amusement flickering across that pristine face. It was the expression of someone who had predicted precisely this response. Someone who had anticipated panic and had instead been handed a carefully contained submission.

 

He looked pleased.

 

Almost indulgently so.

 

“Is that truly what you believe?” Lucifer drawled. “That you hold nothing worth taking?”

 

Alastor held Lucifer’s gaze, his eyes narrowing imperceptively. 

 

“I possess only my soul, Your Majesty. And I fear that is flawed - battered, even. Scarcely worthy of your notice.”

 

A hum of consideration slid from Lucifer, though his eyes said he’d already come to a verdict long before Alastor arrived.

 

“Flawed,” the King echoed, almost to himself. “Yes. But it’s bright - and so deliciously defiant.” His gaze sharpened. “You underestimate your value, pet.”

 

Alastor stiffened, but Lucifer lifted a single hand - almost lazy in the gesture.

 

“Relax,” he said, though his tone carried no comfort. “Panic is beneath you. And unnecessary. I already know what I want from you.”

 

The air in the throne room seemed to constrict.

 

Adam snickered softly from where he leaned against the dais, the sound low and dark.

 

Lucifer’s eyes never left Alastor.

 

“You have nothing to barter,” the King repeated. “But you have everything I require.”

 

Alastor’s head turned instinctively, tracking the devil’s movements with  wary precision. Lucifer didn’t pace - pacing was far too common an action for someone of his stature. No, he circled, gliding around Alastor with a measured, unhurried stride. 

 

The King’s gaze raked him slowly from antler to hoof. Every inch of him was taken in in ways that made something cold gather at the base of Alastor’s spine.

 

“Tell me, Alastor,” Lucifer murmured, voice smooth enough to pass for kindness if not for the razor beneath it, “are you familiar with my ‘tale of woe’?”

 

Alastor hesitated. Just a breath. Just long enough to betray his discomfort. But he inclined his head in a respectful dip.

 

“Yes, Your Majesty,” he answered, quietly. “I am.”

 

Lucifer made a sound as though the acknowledgment touched something old and aching in him.

 

“It pains me,” he said -  and his voice carried none of the brittle theatrics of false sorrow - only something cold and far too real, “to have lost my family. My wife. My daughter.” The words pulled the room taut. “I am a king bereft of a lineage. Bereft of an heir.”

 

Alastor’s throat tightened.

 

Lucifer paused behind him, close enough that the air seemed to thrum with the proximity of celestial decay. When he spoke again, his voice slid down Alastor’s spine like an open palm pressed to the nape of his neck.

 

“An empire without succession is an empire doomed to rot,” Lucifer said.

 

The words were simple, almost clinical, but Alastor felt them strike like a hammer. Adam’s offhand mutterings from thirty years prior shove themselves to the forefront of his mind. 

 

He’s not had his eyes on an Omega since that bitch-wife of his left.

 

The memory pulsed, sickeningly alive.

 

Alastor swallowed, his throat tight. “There are innumerable Omegas who would gladly serve as your companion, Your Majesty,” he stated, primly. “Many would fall over themselves for the honor.”

 

A faint, dismissive sound escaped the King, accompanied by a flick of his fingers as though shooing away the notion.

 

“Indubitably. But it was Lilith’s defiance that drew me to her. Her refusal to bend to prophecy. The audacity to spit upon the fate Heaven carved for her.”

 

He stepped forward, shadows painting sharp lines across his face.

 

“And you, Alastor…” His gaze slid over him, slow and knowing. “…share that very trait.”

 

The room seemed to tighten around them until Alastor could feel his pulse hammering at the hollow of his throat. The King wasn’t merely assessing him. He was claiming him with his eyes alone.

 

Lucifer continued, tone silky but edged with something ancient and merciless.

 

“Subservience bores me. Compliance irritates me. But defiance?” A small, chilling smile touched his lips. “Defiance has always compelled me to take interest.”

 

“It’s that same defiance that invigorated her escape, Your Majesty,” Alastor answered, the words clipped and cool. “Surely you are better suited seeking an Omega who would willingly serve you. Someone eager to stand at your side.”

 

Lucifer considered that with a thoughtful hum - one that held neither offense nor agreement, merely contemplation. His gaze shone with something faintly predatory. 

 

“Perhaps. But nothing has ever stirred my loins quite like a creature with a spine. Obedience is expected. Defiance is… delectable.”

 

Alastor’s lips twitched. 

 

“You flatter me,” he said, tone dry enough to crack. The words were elegant, but there was unmistakable ire beneath the surface. “Though perhaps it isn’t me you fancy, Your Majesty. Perhaps it is merely the lingering effects of this ‘siren’s call’ you so graciously bestowed upon my soul.”

 

Lucifer’s expression shifted into something sly and knowing, amusement threading through his crimson gaze as though he'd been waiting, inviting, that barb.

 

A soft chuckle left him as he settled before Alastor. Comparatively smaller. But no less imposing. 

 

“Oh, Alastor… if it were merely your curse drawing me, I would have grown bored of you decades ago.” Lucifer’s voice was a low croon, indulgent and cruel. “Do you have any inkling how delicious you’ve been to watch? The sight of you writhing beneath the bonds of matrimony… the exquisite tension of your spirit pressed beneath a yoke you refused to accept…”

 

He exhaled softly, almost reverently.

 

“…it was art.”

 

Alastor’s head snapped toward him, crimson eyes flaring wide. Outrage distorted his usually impeccable composure - his ears flattening, his nostrils flaring and every line of his elegant frame going rigid. His lips peeled back just slightly, revealing pointed teeth like a cornered beast ready to bite.

 

And Lucifer smiled as though the display were a gift.

 

The devil’s gaze grew half-lidded, ardor coiling within it like the serpent he was. It wasn’t the mindless hunger of an Alpha - it was something dripping with a depravity that belonged only to the Morningstar. Something that made Adam look almost quaint in comparison.

 

“The consequence of your defiance was always going to be agony,” Lucifer stated, stepping closer. “Agony of constraint. Agony of the bonds you were meant to wear. The agony of being tethered and paraded… and yet - ”

 

His hand lifted, a single claw tracing the air near Alastor’s cheek without touching.

 

“Yet you refused to break.”

 

A soft, delighted hum passed his lips.

 

“I let you rot in that gilded cage for thirty years. Thirty years of watching you strain, claw, scheme, charm and endure.” His eyes darkened, bright with wicked hunger. “Thirty years of watching you choke on a destiny you despised… and still you refuse to surrender.”

 

Lucifer leaned in, voice dropping to a sinful, intimate whisper.

 

“You kept me entertained, Alastor. Well and truly entertained.”

 

“Fuck you, Lucifer.”

 

The words tore free before he could restrain them - raw, unfiltered, soaked in thirty years of degradation and humiliation. They cracked through the Throne Room like a whip.

 

Lucifer blinked once, slowly. 

 

Adam, on the other hand, threw his head back and guffawed, the sound loud and entirely delighted.

 

For one astonishing moment, something in Alastor loosened. That tight coil in his chest seemed to snap. The release was sharp, painful and liberating all at once. He breathed like a creature surfacing from icy water.

 

“I’m not your toy,” he growled, voice quivering with a fury that bordered on hysteria. “I’m not - ”

 

“Oh, but you are, Alastor.”

 

Lucifer cut him off with a softness so obscenely tender that it made the doe’s stomach twist. The King’s expression gentled - not with kindness, but with the patronizing patience of a man explaining something simple to a stubborn child. Even his tone shifted, smooth and sweet, as though he delivered a gentle correction rather than a declaration of dominion.

 

“You are my toy,” Lucifer cooed, drifting closer until the air itself felt taut. “You’ve always been mine. You belong to me as surely as every soul in this realm belongs to me.”

 

He tilted his head, eyes luminous with a calm that was far more terrifying than rage.

 

“All of you,” he continued. “Every writhing Omega desperate for purpose, every snarling Alpha blinded by instinct, every Beta begging to rise above what fate dictated…? ”

 

His gaze hardened with quiet finality.

 

“You all belong to me. And you always will.”

 

And then he smiled. And it was a small, serene thing that chilled Alastor to his marrow.

 

“No matter how loudly you protest.”

 

Lucifer snapped his fingers with a delicate flick, as though dismissing a speck of dust rather than altering the fabric of the room itself. Crimson light coalesced before the throne, spiraling upward like smoke caught in reverse, until the staff manifested between them. It hovered just within Alastor’s reach, cruelly close, as though beckoning with an invisible hand.

 

“The staff,” Lucifer drawled, his tone deceptively plain, “for your soul.”

 

It wasn’t a negotiation. It was a verdict dressed in silk.

 

Alastor’s smile broadened with irritation. “That isn’t a deal,” he spat. “That’s an exchange.”

 

Lucifer only gave a slow, careless shrug - an elegant gesture that radiated pure insolence. His expression brightened into something boyish and wicked, the faintest touch of mockery curling at the edges of his lips.

 

“Well,” he said, slipping effortlessly into a modern cadence as if to twist the knife, “them’s the breaks.”

 

The phrase was so flippant, so offensively casual, that something primal snapped inside the doe. Rage rippled through his limbs like electricity - rage he couldn’t swallow. 

 

His hands shook. His breath hitched. His ribs felt tight enough to crack.

 

“I - ”

 

No further words found shape. He trembled openly, violently, his entire body a taut wire threatening to snap. His ears flattened against his skull and his pupils were blown wide with fury. Every instinct screamed at him to lunge forward and tear Lucifer’s throat out with his bare claws. 

 

But he couldn’t move.

 

And Lucifer watched him with a serene, beatific delight - drinking in his fury like wine.

 

“There must be stipulations,” Alastor forced out, breath hitching as he struggled to gather what remained of his composure. “Some clause - some provision -  fucking something - ”

 

“The staff for your soul,” Lucifer repeated, almost lightly. As though Alastor hadn’t spoken at all. As though this were a nursery rhyme he found endlessly amusing.

 

Alastor’s jaw clenched. “I can’t just - ”

 

The devil’s eyes round as he cocks his head to the side, the action almost comical in its exaggeration. 

 

“The staff for your soul,” Lucifer echoed again, this time with a syrupy, sing-song tilt that made Alastor’s skin crawl. The devil’s crimson eyes glowed with delighted malice, his voice pitched just enough to mimic an adult teasing a child too slow to grasp a simple rule. “The staff… for your soul.”

 

He even rocked slightly on his heels, as if swaying in time with his own cruel little melody.

 

Alastor felt his breath stutter. His vision tightened at the edges. The entire chamber seemed to shrink around those taunts - those fucking repetitions that stripped away every veneer of dignity he still clung to.

 

Lucifer positively beamed at the sight of him unraveling.

“Come now, my darling,” he cooed. “Do try to keep up.”

 

The rage that pulsed through Alastor was incandescent yet utterly, laughably helpless. He hated that. Hated that the path to power led straight through the devil’s claws. Hated that the staff, brilliant and thrumming with potential, was nothing more than a collar fashioned in a prettier shape. A gift from Lucifer was never a liberation. 

 

It was a leash.

 

And this leash led to another master.

 

Rosie.

Vox.

 

 And now Lucifer.

 

Mistresses and masters - every one of them certain that he belonged beneath their thumb. That he existed to be shaped and displayed.

 

“It chafes, doesn’t it?” Lucifer purred.

 

Alastor’s stomach twisted. The devil said it with the airy satisfaction of a man tasting a fine wine. Lucifer didn’t even bother to hide the way his eyes danced, hungry to watch each flicker of turmoil ripple across the Omega’s face.

 

And perhaps he could read him. Perhaps the King truly saw every frantic turn of thought. Alastor didn’t know. That uncertainty only sharpened the horror.

 

“Oh, don’t delude yourself, sweetheart,” the devil sneered, his voice dropping its veneer of charm in favor of something far colder. “Do you honestly believe you - you - could ever claw your way to power without the charity of your betters?”

 

The words were a lash.

A truth he knew.

 

 A truth he despised.

 

“Everything you have,” Lucifer continued, leaning forward with an indulgent sneer, “and everything you will ever hope to have - will be borrowed. Or gifted. Never earned.”

 

Alastor’s jaw tightened until his teeth creaked.

 

He refused to acknowledge the accuracy of the blow. He had hoped, desperately, that he might surpass the limits of his soul and that he might claw his way out of the shape destiny forced upon him. But Lucifer crushed that hope with a few casual words.

 

The King smirked. 

 

“How about this?” he mused lightly. “Our little arrangement - between you, Adam and myself. A delightful little secret. You may strut about and play at independence. Pretend you climbed your way to power on your own merit.” His grin sharpened. “A charming fantasy. Fraudulent, yes. But harmless.”

 

Alastor released a shaky breath, struggling - and failing - to completely anchor himself. 

 

“I need to think about this, Lucifer.”

 

No honorific. No title.

Just venom.

 

Lucifer’s grin widened, delighted by the insolence.

 

He summoned his own staff with a lazy flourish, slamming it into the floor with gentleman’s elegance. 

 

“Mm. How about - no?” he answered, brightly.

 

Alastor’s claws curled inward.

 

Lucifer’s smile stretched into something predatory and cruel.

 

“How about,” he drawled, savoring every syllable, “your soul for the staff.”

 

He gave a little shimmy of his shoulders - mocking him. 

 

“And if I say no?” he asked, voice low and trembling with barely leashed fury.

 

Lucifer’s eyes gleamed with mirth.

 

“Then I do hope you can survive that adoring husband of yours,” he said lightly. “Oh, he’ll be positively ecstatic when he finds you. Positively ravenous.”

 

He waved a hand vaguely, as though discussing something trivial.

 

“A gentle warning, darling. Your little absence has stirred quite the commotion. They’re picking apart the city looking for you as we speak. Adam’s clever little trick left them with the impression that you miraculously escaped that lovely abode of yours.”

 

The words slid into Alastor’s ears like ice water, numbing everything they touched. His breath hitched. His mind conjured the image of being dragged back across the threshold of the Vees’ towering domain. Valentino’s amused disdain. Velvette’s smug titter. Vox’s possessive smile curdling into something vicious and triumphant.

 

He pictured himself in their grasp with this disgustingly weak body. 

 

“So…”

 

He extended a hand, the action deceptively courtly. Above them, the staff answered his summons and rose to settle above them. Its presence pulsed in Alastor’s bones, humming with possibility… and ownership.

 

“What do you say, sweetheart? Ready to make a deal with the devil?”

Chapter 27: 27

Alastor lay curled upon the extravagantly soft bed after his audience with the King. He simply folded into himself, a tight knot of trembling limbs and ragged breath, staring blankly at the opposite wall as though it might offer him a way out of this new reality.

 

Misery pressed over him in waves. It filled his lungs, roosted in his spine and settled behind his eyes until everything looked dim and unreal. No matter how finely woven the linens were, no matter how gently he lay upon them; he felt only cold  and aching clarity of truth.

 

He was in Hell.

 

Truly.

 

Vox owned his body. His mark still burned faintly upon Alastor’s neck, that  ridge of scar tissue pulsing with every beat of his heart. The laws of the Pride Ring were strict enough: a mated Omega was bound. And the ring still glittered snugly around his finger, an unyielding band of silver inlaid with shining red and blue stones. 

 

Their stones. Their colors. A symbol of a unity he had never willingly accepted, yet could not bring himself to remove.

 

Something deeper tightened whenever he even thought of sliding it off. It was a twisting ache accompanied by a sharp sting of panic. The ring practically hummed with proprietary affection when he touched it. He hated it. And he feared it more.

 

He didn’t even remember Vox slipping it onto his hand.

Didn’t remember the vows.

Didn’t remember saying “I do.”

Only saw the proof of it here, shining mockingly in the dim light of his borrowed chambers.

 

Lucifer, however, owned what Vox could not reach. The King’s touch had been glacial - an elegant cold that had wormed its way deep into his soul. The moment Lucifer laid claim, he felt that ancient, eldritch force coiling around the very essence of him. Cold fingers had closed around his damned soul and claimed it with delighted cruelty.

 

It had hurt.

God, it had hurt.

 

The magical shackles that cracked into existence afterward - encircling wrists, ankles and neck - tightened and burned against his flesh. They were beautiful. They were damning. And they were visible only to those allowed to see them. For now, this humiliation was private. A secret collar tied tight around the throat of the Devil’s new pet.

 

In the span of an hour, he had become a creature who owned nothing.

 

He curled tighter, trying to fold himself into a space small enough that no one’s dominion could reach. A vain, childish thought. But he couldn’t help it.

 

And yet - 

There, leaning against the side of the bed where he’d left it, was the staff. His staff. The thing he had seized with a desperation so raw Lucifer had actually laughed. He’d lunged for it like a starving man reaching for bread, his hands trembling so fiercely he nearly dropped it. And when his claws finally curled around the cold metal, he’d fallen to his knees with a  breathy heave.

 

A pathetic sight.

A trembling Omega clutching an item - a weapon -  too grand for him to comprehend.

 

Both Lucifer and Adam had watched hungrily as he gasped, half-laughing in a cracked, breathless way; tears shining in his eyes as he pulled the staff to his chest. He had lost composure entirely, his sanity temporarily undone. 

 

He had it.

He had power.

For the first time in decades - in nearly a century. 

 

He had scarcely noticed when Adam had extracted him from the Throne Room floor, insane giggles that echoed continuing to spill from his lips. 

 

A knock at the door pulled him from the spiral.

 

“Sir Alastor,” came a prim voice from beyond the threshold. “It is time to take your midday meal.”

 

He exhaled once. Then slowly uncurled his body from the bed, smoothing his clothes and squashing the panic that roiled within his personal depths. He stood with practiced grace, even if his knees wobbled beneath him.

 

Alastor allowed himself to be fed and tended to. 

It wouldn’t do to displease His Majesty. 

❧

The staff performed exactly as Lucifer intended. More than that - it performed beautifully. 

 

The moment Alastor’s claws wrapped around the polished, dark metal, something ancient and electric surged through him, unraveling into every corner of his being. Knowledge bloomed behind his eyes like scripture written directly onto his nerves. 

 

He knew how to wield it. How to call upon it. 

 

But understanding did not equate to mastery. Not yet.

 

The first time he attempted to channel it, dizziness crashed over him in a thick, disorienting wave. His vision fractured into static, his limbs buzzing as though filled with a dozen discordant frequencies. He felt as though he were being rewritten - his flesh adjusting to accommodate something greater than he had ever dared imagine.

 

The changes were not superficial.
 

They reshaped him.

 

What Lucifer bestowed was not a trinket nor a toy - it was an augmentation so profound that Alastor could feel the seams of his soul stretching to contain it. The King had specifically crafted it for him long before Alastor stepped foot into the throne room.

 

 Of course he had prepared. 

 

Lucifer never offered a gift unless every outcome had been meticulously arranged in advance. The tailored clothing, the fitting quarters and the staff that melded with him so seamlessly? None of it was coincidence. The King had simply been waiting for him to accept the inevitable.

 

And as the power settled, Alastor realized even his voice had changed. When he spoke aloud, there was a faint undertone beneath every word. A ghostly ripple of feedback akin to the soft static of a radio seeking frequency. It was familiar - painfully so - and reminiscent of a time when he held command over his narrative. 

 

But now the static was different.

Because it wasn’t entirely his own. 

 

It was merely something borrowed. 

 

Power flooded his limbs, humming and pulsing in tune with the staff. It responded to him with fluid eagerness, as though it had been forged from a piece of his very essence.

 

Yet he was unsteady.

 

He needed time to adjust. To strengthen himself before he dared step beyond these gilded walls and face the world again. If he misstepped, if he pushed too hard or if he reached beyond what his newly augmented soul could handle… he suspected the results would be catastrophic.

 

❧

His status had shifted in the eyes of the Morningstar staff. Word had clearly traveled through the castle’s halls, quiet and efficient. They had been informed  of the permanence of his station. The details were obscured behind courtly propriety, but the result was visible at every turn; the doe noticing bowed heads and bodies bent in polite deference as he passed.

 

Reverence.

Or something close enough to it.

 

He did not fool himself into believing he was Lucifer’s equal - nor Adam’s, for that matter. But he had become something adjacent to authority. Something that set him apart from the masses of Sinners who cluttered Hell’s rings with their petty ambitions.

 

Alastor adapted to his bemusing new role with practiced grace and open appreciation. If he was expected to linger here then he preferred they look upon him with a measure of respect. 

 

He did not crave their fear, after all. 

 

Fear would be reserved for those who sought to place him back in chains upon his return to Pentagram City. He imagined their faces -  imagined the trembling shock when they finally understood what had become of him. That was where his power would settle. That was where he would make his mark.

 

In the evenings, during their shared meals Lucifer would  probe for information. Not aggressively, not even sternly. He simply asked, as though discussing the weather or the state of the gardens, his tone light and conversational.

 

“And what do you intend now, Alastor?” he’d say, carving leisurely into a slice of steak barely kissed by flame. 

 

The meat glistened - slick and red at its center - and Lucifer savored it with an appreciation that bordered on decadent. His crimson gaze lifted during each bite, studying Alastor with a mixture of amusement and genuine interest.

 

It was unnerving, how casual he seemed.

And yet beneath that veneer lingered a constant, simmering malice. An eternal undercurrent woven into every smile and every glance. Lucifer carried cruelty the way others carried their natural signature as though it had been stitched into him from the beginning.

 

That paradox fascinated Alastor.

Lucifer’s questions were not traps - they were merely invitations. Doors opened with a lazy flick of a wrist. These nightly interrogations over a prepared meal were opportunities to reveal himself and to offer glimpses of character.

 

And so Alastor spoke, carefully but without timidity. He presented the King with his intentions; his plans for ascension, for reclaiming the identity he had been forced to abandon and for carving out a place in Hell where he would be met not with condescension but  awe. 

 

“My aim is to ascend to Overlord status,” he said. “To be recognized for my power - not relegated to the role of a companion.”

 

Lucifer hummed, faint amusement curling the corner of his mouth. “Delightful. You speak as though shedding domesticity is akin to shedding a skin. And perhaps it is. Omegas are wont to molt under pressure.”

 

Alastor’s smile sharpened. “Domesticity dulled me, Your Majesty. But sharp edges may be honed again.”

 

“You’re a killer at heart,” Lucifer observed, swirling his wine. “I watched you in life, you know. The way you stalked your prey. Fascinating pattern, that. And I suspect that there’s something far more personal in your choice of quarry.”

 

Silence stretched. 

 

Alastor blinked slowly, his right ear giving a light flick. 

 

“You’ve quite the fixation on my sex, Alastor. Alphas repel and entice you in equal measure. You crave intimacy with them only through bloodshed - not breeding.”

 

Alastor’s gaze slid to the side, crimson eyes half-lidded. “You’re not wrong.”

 

“Not wrong,” Lucifer echoed with a soft laugh. “A charming understatement.”

 

Alastor allowed himself the smallest tilt of the head, the faintest curl of amusement at the corner of his mouth. “I prefer a more… visceral approach to intimacy, Your Majesty. One with clearer resolutions.”

 

“Ah,” Lucifer purred. “Yes. You’ve always been terribly honest with your violence.”

 

He raised his glass in a mock toast.

 

“And now, with your pretty little staff,” he continued, “you may indulge that honesty as deeply as you desire.”

 

❧

 

Steam curled lazily from the deep ceramic tub, wrapping Alastor in perfumed warmth as he lay half-slumped against its rim. His arms hung over the porcelain edges. Above him, the vaulted ceiling blurred in and out of focus. Lucifer had insisted on a regimen of pampering, the kind befitting a treasured acquisition. The King’s “care” was utterly suffocating in its lavishness, an affection that felt more like a shackle than comfort.

 

Servants moved around him with  precision, their presence constant and silent. A female imp’s small horns dipped into view every few seconds as she worked a brush through his damp mane, her motions gentle enough to be almost reverent. Another pair of hands cupped his face, smoothing moisturizer into every crease. Someone plucked at his brows with careful, practiced pinches. Another sluiced warm water over his shoulders. Every touch was precise and coordinated; an entire team devoted to the maintenance of Lucifer’s newest possession.

 

He had spent decades tending to his own grooming with exacting discipline; personal upkeep had been one of the only domains Vox hadn’t completely wrested from him. Yet here, even that autonomy had been stripped from his grasp. He wasn’t permitted to lift a claw. 

 

“That’s beneath you now, my pet,” Lucifer had purred earlier, the words whispered against the shell of Alastor’s ear.

 

The memory made his jaw tighten, though he kept his expression placid for the watching eyes. He let them comb and scrub and preen him like an exotic beast. His mind floated somewhere between numb acquiescence and buried fury.

 

It unsettles him.

 

He didn’t know Lucifer’s true intentions. The implications had been laid before him, yet the King refused to offer anything resembling clarity. And Alastor, for his part, dared not press for it. He feared that true awareness might snap whatever fragile composure he still possessed. It might undo him completely, leaving him trembling beneath the devil’s scrutiny with nothing left but fear.

 

No. It was better to remain selectively blind.

 

Alastor began to craft a refuge inside himself, the way he once had when Vox’s penthouse became a gilded prison. Back then he had learned the value of illusion. He had carved out a sanctuary made of memory and imagination. A place of quiet retreat when his reality sought to crush him entirely. 

 

He would do the same now.

 

He would curate an identity as carefully as he had once curated his broadcasts.

 

A name whispered itself from the recesses of his past, from a conversation with Rosie long ago. A name born of charm and menace in equal measure.

 

The Radio Demon.

 

Yes.

 

He would wear that name.
 

He would become it.

❧

 

Every day became a ritual. 

 

Alastor woke and devoted himself to mastering the power Lucifer had bound into his hands. The staff taught as much as it obeyed, its hum a living language he learned to interpret as it guided his fingers into new forms of sorcery. 

 

His shadow stretched and contorted at his command, dividing, twisting and reforming like living ink. Tendrils of darkness rippled from its edges. Flight came next until he could hold himself aloft without trembling or collapsing moments later.

 

And through it all stood Adam, hovering like a grinning devil over a fresh Sinner. The Fallen Angel had taken to his role as mentor with vicious enthusiasm. He showed no mercy, no tenderness nor any trace of the warmth he’d offered in stolen moments. 

 

Training with him was an ordeal - brutality disguised as instruction. Adam struck fast and without warning, each blow landing hard enough to rattle Alastor’s bones. When Alastor stumbled, he was mocked. When he erred, he was punished. When he hesitated, Adam advanced with a predatory gleam and made him regret it.

 

“C’mon, babe,” Adam barked more than once, circling him with wings fanned in mock impatience. “You ain’t Vox’s little housewife anymore. Move like a killer - or stay a fuckin’ disappointment.”

 

Alastor learned to grit his teeth through the pain. Learned to swallow the humiliation and redirect it into sharp precision. His instincts sharpened under Adam’s relentless assault; his spells tightened, his reactions quickened and the staff responded readily responded. 

 

Yet the price of that progress was steep. Most days ended with Alastor collapsed on the training floor, panting, bruised and shaking from exertion. Adam would simply hook an arm under him, hoist him up like discarded prey and drop him unceremoniously into the waiting arms of the imps.

 

And then, when morning came, the cycle began anew.

 

But weeks of unyielding torment bore fruit. The day finally came when Alastor launched a counterstrike fast enough to make Adam blink and when he held himself upright after a ferocious exchange instead of buckling to the floor. The staff crackled in his grip, eager and triumphant. His shadow whipped around him like a living cloak.

 

Adam laughed then. 

 

“Well, would ya look at that,” he drawled, grudging approval roughening his tone. “You’re finally passable. You could probably take down an Overlord - long as they ain’t one of the big names.” He smirked, fangs bared. “Aim low. Start with a bitch who won’t kill ya on the first swing.”

 

Alastor straightened, chest heaving as his eyes gleamed with something more dangerous than hope. 

 

“So,” Adam drawled, circling him like a wolf scenting fresh blood, his wings half-spread in lazy amusement. “Whatcha gonna do now, babe?” 

 

The question wasn’t a prompt - it was a test. A demand to see what all this agony had carved out of the Omega he’d dragged out of Vox’s marital cage.

 

Alastor lifted his head slowly, savoring the ache in his muscles and the lingering sting where Adam’s blows had landed. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. The staff hummed as his shadow lengthened; the dark image revealing shadow-drenched teeth. And then, with deliberate ease, his lips pulled back into that familiar, too-sharp smile. 

 

Not the polite curve he had worn for decades.

Not the docile mask Vox adored.

 

A predator’s smile. A killer’s grin.

 

He twirled his cane in his grasp, readily adopting the air of a well-practiced showman. 

 

“I’m going to destroy every last one of them."

 

The pair dissolved into laughter, eyes alight with a shared madness borne from suffering. 

Notes:

Cue 'Gravity' reference.

Vox's chapter is next as a heads up. Which will be a rare POV shift.

Chapter 28: 28

Notes:

This chapter highlights what Alastor missed while he was enduring withdrawal symptoms.

There is important information contained here in addition.

Also, we're not at all close to the ending. So I do hope ya'll bear with me as I continue to press onward with this strange.

It could not be denied.

 

Vox loved his wife. 

 

In his own fractured, possessive way - he had adored Alastor for thirty uninterrupted years. His fixation never once dimmed; if anything, it calcified into something absolute as time marched on. 

 

He prided himself on the belief that he alone knew how to guide Alastor gently onto the correct path. A path perfectly suited for an Omega’s temperament; one that would keep his delicate mind tranquil and his beautiful body steady. 

 

In Vox’s eyes, he was doing everything right. He was loving him properly.

 

In the early years of their marriage, Vox had chosen to fold domesticity into every corner of Alastor’s life. Chores, after all, were what an Omega should excel at - simple tasks to occupy their hands and quiet their thoughts. He watched with a deep satisfaction as Alastor improved. 

 

The doe went from stiff and resentful to precise and efficient; scrubbing the floors until they shone, polishing the kitchen to a spotless gleam and laundering and ironing their clothing with meticulous care. Vox watched it all through his surveillance feeds in those days, lounging comfortably as his pretty little bride drifted from task to task, movements smoothing out as habit replaced resistance. 

 

It soothed him. It made him feel he had done something noble.

 

He helped the transition, of course. He bought things Alastor liked - novels from bygone eras, a carefully restored radio and small domestic luxuries that lit the Omega’s eyes just enough to keep him compliant. When Alastor perked up at a new book or bobbed his head lightly to a jazz broadcast, Vox was pleased. 

 

Positive reinforcement, he told himself. Love.

 

There were snags, naturally. Alastor had a streak of something contrary - something stubborn that Vox found both infuriating and intoxicating. When that difficult side surfaced, he corrected it with practiced patience. A firmer tone or a disappointed silence. A clear reminder of expectations. Nothing cruel, nothing violent - just the sort of discipline a good husband provided

 

And Alastor would yield, eventually. He always did. Defiance earned consequences: isolation, revoked privileges, confiscated wine and silenced radio shows. But Vox never took away the chores. Those were stabilizing. Those were important to his darling’s development.

 

And over time, the edges of resistance smoothed. Alastor learned to move through the penthouse with obedient grace, exchanging compliance for small comforts. Vox told himself this was progress. Contentment was a foundation, he thought - happiness could be built upon it, brick by brick, day by day and year by year. They had eternity, after all.

 

Meanwhile, Vox’s empire flourished. His domain expanded like a living thing, tendrils of influence stretching across industries and territories. His name became a fixture of Hell. And Alastor’s career rose alongside his, the doe’s voice sweeping across the airwaves under Vox’s protective watch. 

 

They would have perfected their image with a child; that final, irrefutable seal upon their union. Vox had envisioned it so many times it felt like a memory rather than a fantasy; a small, perfect creature that would stand as physical proof of their devotion. A future darling for the public to glorify. 

 

He had pictured the announcement - how the news would spread like wildfire, how the media would speculate breathlessly over the child’s sex while the media teased the public with curated hints. He had imagined Alastor standing before the cameras, draped in elegant maternity wear, his middle round and lovely and the glow of pregnancy softening his already exquisite features. 

 

A spectacle of domestic bliss.

 

And of course, the birth itself. Vox saw it as the moment that would change everything. A tiny babe cupped in Alastor’s arms; a living tether between them. He believed it would finally shatter that practiced neutrality in the doe’s expression and would coax genuine warmth from those guarded crimson eyes. 

 

Vox could almost see it… Alastor gazing down at their infant with trembling reverence, instinct overruling defiance as he guided the newborn to suckle. Gentle croons spilling from his lips, maternal instinct unfurling in full bloom, binding him irrevocably to the life they had created.

 

He imagined the nursery in painstaking detail; soft pastels washing the walls in gentle hues, a rocking chair positioned near a window where warm light would spill across Alastor’s lap as he lulled their child to sleep. Shelves lined with harmless toys and plush creatures, blankets woven from the gentlest fabrics and a crib draped in gauzy curtains. 

 

He pictured the bottles of milk arranged neatly in a row in the fridge, the tiny cloth diapers folded with domestic precision on shelves, the delicate outfits stitched in miniature hanging in the closet - all little reminders of just how small and dependent their child would be.

 

And more than the objects, he imagined the sounds; the faint, breathy coos of an infant discovering its voice, the soft rhythm of a lullaby hummed by Alastor in the quiet hours of the night. 

 

In Vox’s mind, it was perfect. A world crafted for the three of them. 

 

But nothing came. Not that year, nor the next - nor the countless ones that followed. Hope rose only to collapse under the weight of every failed attempt. Every cycle ended with nothing more than silence. The disappointment settled into the walls of their home like a sickness.

 

Doctors were summoned but they brought nothing of substance. No answers. No solutions. Merely clinical reassurance that meant nothing to a man desperate for a future he could cradle in his hands.

 

Each test confirmed the same bleak truth: an empty womb; a wife with no child to hold.

 

It shouldn’t have hurt as deeply as it did - but it did. 

 

It cut him in ways he hadn’t known he could bleed. Vox craved fatherhood with a fierce, consuming desire; a longing to fulfill a duty he had so carelessly dismissed in life. And with his beloved Alastor he had believed -  with absolute conviction -  that they would succeed. 

 

That together they would fashion a family, the final pillar in the empire he had so meticulously built.

 

If they had managed it, he would have had everything.

 

But instead, year after year, all he received was absence. A future that refused to arrive. A child that never came. And a hollow ache that settled deeper with every passing decade.

 

He’d forced himself to come to terms with it. To accept that they could only wait and hope for the span of an eternity the spark of life would emerge and that they would have their family. One that he’d take immense pride in. But for now, he would remain content with his wife; who appeared just as somber about the entire ordeal. 

 

The absence of a child left a hollow space in Vox that he refused to acknowledge aloud. So he filled it with work. He threw himself into the only realm that had never failed him: his empire. His focus sharpened into something relentless, almost feverish. Every unspent ounce of yearning was redirected toward domination. 

 

It was a natural escalation. If he couldn’t build a family, then he would build an empire vast enough to overshadow the ache.

 

And so his reach extended. What began as a media monopoly soon branched into adjacent domains. The adult film industry became the first to fold beneath his influence, Valentino’s enterprise gradually entangled with his own until their partnership solidified into something lucrative and formidable. Velvette’s modeling empire followed, a seamless complement to the ever-growing machine of public consumption.

 

Through these alliances the three forged a kingdom of their own making - The Vees. 

 

Their growing image as a trio soon extended to include the two Omegas within their orbit. Alastor and Angel Dust, once peripheral fixtures, were steadily absorbed into the Vees’ public identity. Their beauty and charm drew the eye of Hell with almost embarrassing ease. 

 

The public adored them.

 

And Vox embraced that adoration with unabashed pride. He folded the two Omegas neatly into the expanding brand, presenting them as glittering satellites to the Vees’ star - secondary, yes, but undeniably valuable. Their presence bolstered ratings, raised profits and added a sheen of irresistible softness to an empire.

 

In the grand design, they were offshoots - extensions of the Vees’ brilliance, decorative but lucrative. Their faces sold merchandise. Their interviews drew in millions. Their appearances turned the public into frothing devotees.

 

And Vox reveled in it.

 

He had no child to parade, nor an heir to raise. But he had this; a family of influence, carefully curated and lovingly maintained. 

 

Life was glorious - almost obscenely so. The years had sculpted Vox into precisely what the public demanded; a creature of spectacle. 

He had shed the older models of himself like outdated prototypes, maturing into something sleeker, sharper, and unmistakably modern. His head had evolved into a streamlined, state-of-the-art display; his chassis refined until every line of his body broadcast a power capable of harnessing and expelling voltages. 

 

He had become the physical embodiment of a new era.

 

And Pentagram City adored him for it.

 

Each upgrade of his form only heightened their hunger. 

 

Every broadcast tightened his reign.

 

Vox lived in a palace of attention, his empire in a state of perpetual expansion. 

 

He believed that his life was perfect.

 

Absolutely perfect.

 

❧

 

And then the truth hit him.  A single, crushing revelation. 

 

He had been deceived. 

 

Not once. Not twice. But for decades.

 

And the catalyst of that shattering insight was nothing more than a tiny, white pill.

 

He had found it by accident, dislodged from its hiding place while Alastor lay trembling and pathetic on their bed. And Vox had stilled the moment the little tablet sat innocently in the center of his palm. 

 

He scanned it first, running its signature through multiple databases, cross-referencing chemical compositions and branded generics. His algorithms swept through mountains of medical records and pharmaceutical archives within seconds. His digital logic tried to interpret the results in any way but the one forming before him.

 

But the narrowing search parameters refused to lie.

 

A contraceptive.

 

His system stalled. His body went rigid. For a brief, suspended moment he felt as though his signal had been severed, leaving his mind suspended in dead air.

 

No.

No, that couldn’t be right.

 

Clinging to a flicker of improbable hope he took the pill to a pharmaceutical evaluator. He watched as the chemist analyzed its components with meticulous care.

 

And then came the verdict.

 

Birth control. Omega-specific. Designed to suppress heat-based conception entirely.

 

A method of arresting fertility at its biological root.

 

The pharmacist’s voice droned on politely, but Vox heard none of it. The confirmation hollowed him from the inside out. His projected screen flickered. His claws twitched as a static hiss built beneath the surface of his composure. He thanked the evaluator with a brittle pleasantness and left before the tension in his limbs could detonate.

 

Then he returned home and descended into a different kind of hell.

 

He began reviewing footage. Tens of thousands of hours compressed into frantic, sleepless analysis. He examined every angle, every camera and every moment his Omega had stepped into that kitchen. He slowed playback until each movement was unbearably precise.

 

And then he found it.

 

A faint shift of Alastor’s hand. Barely perceptible. So subtle that anyone else would have missed it entirely. Vox zoomed in, magnified the frame and sharpened the pixels.

 

There it was.

 

A slip of claws. A deft, practiced motion. A pill vanishing within the span of a moment. 

 

The footage was from two years ago.

 

He kept sifting. Because now he had to know. He had to see if this was a one-off offense or something more. And with every file he played back, with every quiet betrayal that appeared in soft, damning motions - something inside him unraveled. 

 

The further he looked, the more he found.

 

And the more he found, the more frantic he became.

 

He stood over the slumbering figure of his wife, the dim light glinting off sweat-slick fur and the trembling contours of a fevered face. Alastor looked small like this. And Vox… Vox could not remember the last time he felt rage so potent it rattled through his circuitry like a viral surge; threatening to overload him from the inside out.

 

It would have been so easy to seize those narrow shoulders, shake him awake and demand an explanation. His claws twitched with the urge. 

 

But no.

 

No.

 

He had made a decision. A strategic choice, not an emotional one. He couldn’t ruin this moment by letting fury steer his hand. He needed clarity. He needed control.. So he forced the impulse down, choking it back until the static faded from his sensors.

 

Instead, he followed through on the order he’d given earlier.

 

He stepped into the kitchen, mixed a drink that mimicked water with eerie precision and returned to the bedside with a quiet patience. When he sat, the mattress dipped beneath his weight. His silhouette loomed gently over the doe’s trembling frame.

 

“Sweetheart…” he murmured, lifting Alastor into a half-sitting position. 

 

The Omega mumbled his head lolling against Vox’s chest. Vox eased the cold glass to those quivering  lips, coaxing him to drink with a firmness disguised as affection.

 

Alastor swallowed automatically. And the effect was almost immediate as his eyelashes fluttered and his limbs grew heavy and slack.

 

A deeper sleep pulled him under.

 

Vox lowered him back onto the pillow with painstaking care. And despite the boiling anger simmering beneath every thought his hand rose of its own accord.

 

He brushed aside a damp curl.

 

He leaned down.

 

He pressed a tender, feather-light kiss to Alastor’s feverish forehead.

 

It wasn’t forgiveness.

 

It wasn’t gentleness.

 

It was devotion. 

 

Despite everything Vox still loved him.

 

Loved him too much. Loved him ruinously.

 

He would fix this.

 

Somehow he would repair what had been broken, mend what had been stolen from him and reclaim what was rightfully his. The determination burned through him with a feverish clarity. He would not lose Alastor. He would not lose the future they were meant to share.

 

So Vox made the call.

 

His voice, steady but frigid, summoned the Hellhound trackers - those specialized in locating the barest traces of concealed contraband. Several padded into the penthouse after an hour, their noses low and their movements precise. Vox stepped back, arms folded tightly as he forced himself to remain still while they swept through every inch of the home.

 

They moved throughout the penthouse; snuffling beneath tables, between books, behind appliances, through drawers and cabinets and shelves. They inspected corners Alastor could not have reached without deliberate intent. Every time one of them found something, Vox felt his stomach coil tighter.

 

And then the discoveries began to pile.

 

Pill after pill.

 

One retrieved from beneath the vanity.

 

Two embedded in the lining of a drawer.

 

Another hidden inside the hollow of a decorative statue.

 

A small cluster wedged behind a loose tile.

 

When the Hellhounds finally finished, a small mountain of contraband had been collected and deposited into Vox’s waiting hands.

 

Dozens.

 

Fucking dozens.

 

He stared down at the pile, his form rigid, his projected face utterly unreadable. 

 

Thirty years.

 

Thirty cycles.

 

And thirty stolen chances.

 

The realization hit him with such force he nearly staggered.

 

Thirty deliberate acts of sabotage. Thirty careful, premeditated and intentional refusals. Thirty quiet rejections of everything he had dreamed for them - dreams he had held close to his chest. 

 

Thirty years of being made a fool.

 

He forced himself not to unravel.

 

He would not allow his mind to slip into that terrible orbit of reviewing each memory, dissecting every gesture and every soft sigh of supposed sorrow Alastor had ever offered him in those childless years. He refused to replay the doe’s trembling apologies. The quiet nights when Alastor curled against him and murmured that he didn’t know why it never worked. The way he had clutched Vox’s shirt and whispered that he wanted a family too.

 

He would not reexamine the tears.

 

He would not revisit the hushed promises that they would “try again next year.”

 

He would not dissect the mornings when Alastor would cling to him after another negative test - those beautiful eyes shining with shame, with grief, with disappointment he now knew had been staged with a performer’s finesse.

 

No.

 

No.

 

He would not permit himself to look backward. 

 

He would not think of that.

 

Could not.

 

If he allowed himself even a heartbeat’s indulgence his carefully maintained restraint would shatter entirely and the ruin that followed would be catastrophic.

 

So he clung to the single thought that kept him upright and kept his fury from bursting through his veneer:

 

He would fix this.

 

As Alastor slept, Vox finally committed to a measure he had debated for years - a small, elegant violation wrapped neatly in medical precision. 

 

The doctor arrived under the veil of silence, his instruments sanitized and his demeanor subdued in the presence of one of Hell’s most powerful Overlords. He worked without ceremony. A cold swab against flesh. A careful pinch of skin. The gleam of a needle that housed something far smaller and far more insidious than sedatives or stimulants.

 

The microchip slid beneath Alastor’s skin with practiced ease.

 

His body tried to recoil, but exhaustion kept him heavily and helplessly still.

 

He did not wake.

 

Vox watched closely, arms folded behind his back in a mimicry of calm he did not truly feel. He had imagined this moment before. Countless times, even; each scenario justified by some minor fear of Alastor wandering or slipping beyond his reach. 

 

But now the justification was no longer hypothetical.

 

Now it was a necessity.

 

A small, infinitesimal device nestled beneath the deer's flesh. Nothing visible nor traceable without specialized equipment. A perfect leash threaded beneath skin. A quiet answer to the thirty years of deception. 

 

When the procedure was finished, the doctor stepped back with a deferential bow. Vox dismissed him without looking away from the figure on the bed.

 

Alastor lay curled on his side, breathing shallowly and still lost somewhere between feverish haze and drug-lulled exhaustion. The soft rise and fall of his chest was uneven; his fur still bore the faint sheen of sweat. Vox reached forward, brushing a stray lock of hair from the doe’s forehead.

 

Alastor stirred faintly, a small, instinctive lean toward the warmth of Vox’s hand.

 

And that made the Overlord’s breath hitch.

 

He had been lied to.

 

But now?

 

Now there would be no blind spots.

 

Vox smoothed his thumb once across Alastor’s cheek and whispered:

 

“Sleep well, sweetheart. I’ll keep a closer eye on you from now on.”

 

❧

 

Alastor’s disappearance was not subtle.

 

It was a rupture.

 

One moment, Vox had eyes on him - his limp body sprawled across the penthouse floor, the faint rise and fall of his chest visible beneath strands of disheveled fur. The next, every camera feed inside the home stuttered, crackled and died. 

 

Everything went black in perfect unison.

 

Vox froze exactly where he stood, every system woven into his frame instinctively reaching for a signal - any signal. He pulled up the bedroom feed, the hallway feed, the kitchen feed, the exterior sensors… each one returned the same void. A digital graveyard of dead screens.

 

He knew.

 

He knew in an instant.

 

The quiet that filled the penthouse upon his return felt wrong. No overturned furniture. No trail of struggle. Just a home entirely devoid of warmth. 

Vox tore through every inch of the penthouse. He searched rooms he barely stepped foot in. His projected eyes darted in rapid, frantic spirals. His breaths grew shallow, distorted with static.

 

When he finally paused he activated the tracker embedded in Alastor’s arm.

 

No signal.

 

Nothing.

 

A blank map. 

 

A dead frequency. 

 

As if the device - and the Omega - had simply ceased to exist. Something was blocking its function; something powerful and deliberate. Something beyond his control.

 

Vox’s composure shattered.

 

The Vees were assembled within the hour. Velvette armed herself with tablets and trackers, her brows slanted sharply as she assessed data that led nowhere. Valentino arrived furious, already cracking his knuckles in anticipation of an “interrogation.” And Angel Dust was dragged into the spotlight like a lamb to the slaughter before the Vees.

 

The Alpha’s questioning was not gentle.

 

Angel Dust emerged from it a thoroughly bruised and violently quivering heap. Wrapped in his own arms and barely managing to sit upright. Every time he said he didn’t know anything, Valentino would cup his chin with mock affection before Vox pressed harder.

 

For weeks, the spider could scarcely walk.

 

And Vox did not care.

 

Because he needed answers.

 

He needed his Omega.

 

The city transformed into a hunting ground. Flyers flooded streetlamps. Screens broadcasted emergency updates. News anchors repeated Alastor’s name with reverence and breathless urgency. Vox’s carefully crafted smell of heartbreak and desperation woven into every broadcast.

 

“Missing,” they said.

 

“Taken,” they whispered.

 

“Reward offered for safe retrieval.”

 

Pentagram City listened.

 

Because the Vees wanted their songbird back.

 

And Vox wanted his wife.

 

The news cycle refused to fade. A deliberate choice that kept the memory of Alastor’s disappearance fresh. 

 

Anything to keep the city searching.

 

Anything to get him back.

 

Anything to drag Alastor home.

 

But with each passing day, Vox’s fury fermented into something darker.

 

Confusion.

 

Then obsession.

 

Then a dread that tasted like acid at the back of his throat.

 

Wherever Alastor had gone, whoever had taken him, whatever force shielded him from scanners and spells alike - 

 

- it was stronger than Vox.

 

And he hated that.

 

He hated it more than the betrayal.

 

More than the lie.

 

More than the empty bed he returned to every night with claws clenched in manic desperation around a cold, untouched pillow.

 

Someone had stolen his Omega.

 

Someone had dared.

 

And Vox would watch the world burn to retrieve him.

 

❧

 

It happened on a night like any other. Vox returned expecting emptiness. He didn’t bother checking the feeds. He’d stopped doing that weeks ago. The habit felt pointless now and almost masochistic.

 

There was nothing left to watch.

 

Once, he had adored it. The soft footage of Alastor padding through their home, book in hand, ears twitching as he listened to the radio; tending to his fur and smoothing his mane before the vanity mirror. Mundane little glimpses that made Vox’s chest swell with something impossibly tender.

 

But now there was only absence.

 

He loosened his tie with a practiced tug and stepped into the dimly lit living room - 

 

 - and froze.

 

A scent hit him first. 

 

Spice.

 

Not a ghost of it. 

 

Fresh. 

 

His claws spasm - the tie half-undone. Slowly, he lifted his gaze toward the towering, floor-to-ceiling window overlooking Pentagram City.

 

A figure stood there.

 

Tall. Straight-backed. Dressed in something far sharper than the domestic softness Vox remembered; the creature boasting a sleek, angular ensemble of striped fabric and flared sleeves. 

 

Vox’s screen flickered with static. His processors stumbled over the impossible sight before him.

 

The figure stilled. Their head angled just so; red eyes glinting against the glass as though catching firelight. Slowly, almost indulgently, they turned - revealing a wide, razor-toothed grin steeped in malice and something darker.

 

Alastor.

 

“Welcome home,” he purred, voice layered now - a strange radio’s hum. “My darling.”

Chapter 29: 29

“Alastor.”

 

Vox’s projected eyes fixed upon the figure standing before the glass - his wife, yet not. At first glance, the silhouette was familiar: slender frame, sharp cheekbones, that immaculate crimson mane and the ever-present smile carved into place. 

 

But everything else was wrong.

 

Unsettlingly wrong.

 

The delicate aura he once carried had soured into something dense and electric. His scent was still unmistakably Omega, but threaded now with an unfamiliar gravity. A pressure that coiled around Vox’s nerves and pricked at instincts he had never needed to use around his spouse.

 

Vox’s processors stuttered. His sixth sense flared.

 

Predator, it whispered.

 

He had never once experienced such a sensation in Alastor’s presence. The Omega had always been something to shelter. A fragile thing. 

 

But the creature before him?

 

No.

 

This was something else.

 

“Vincent? Is something wrong?”

 

Alastor blinked, lashes lowering over those wide, crimson eyes. The softness of the gesture was disarming and Vox’s caution faltered under the weight of a scent he knew too well. Omega-sweet, intoxicating and reminiscent of nights tangled beneath silk sheets… it curled lovingly around his senses.

 

“Alastor…” Vox breathed, a hitch of desperation in his tone. “Where have you been?”

 

The doe stepped forward, movements languid and almost theatrical in their ease. The static threaded through his voice deepened the uncanny resonance.

 

“I didn’t intend to frighten you,” he murmured, gaze gentling.

 

That voice - 

That strange, humming overlay - 

It was as though feedback crackled beneath each syllable.

 

“It’s alright,” Vox replied, quickly. “You’re here now. You’re back with me again.”

 

Relief shuddered through him, loosening something in his shoulders. He reached out and pulled Alastor into an embrace, desperate to reclaim some semblance of familiarity. The Omega stiffened - before relaxing in his arms.

 

But his silence lingered like a chill.

 

“Alastor?” Vox pulled back, cupping those narrow shoulders with clawed hands, searching that deceptively placid expression. “Tell me what happened. The entire city’s been searching for you, sweetheart.”

 

Alastor lifted his gaze.

 

And Vox froze.

 

Those eyes were no longer dimmed by domesticity. They were orbs wrapped in a darkness that did not belong to any Omega he had ever known. A darkness that watched him, twin red dials serving as their centerpieces.

 

Before he could react something moved.

 

A shadow erupted from beneath Alastor’s hooves, coiling with serpentine speed around Vox’s waist. His breath stuttered, shock stalling his thoughts - 

 

And then the world lurched.

 

Vox’s body was hauled forward, then violently whipped back before slamming into the glass with bone-rattling force. The pane spiderwebbed beneath him, cracking in a deafening explosion of sound.

 

His gasp turned into a shout as the glass gave way.

 

And Vox fell. 

 

The man sent hurtling toward the glittering sprawl of Pentagram City below with a scream.

 

Alastor strolled toward the shattered window with jaunty ease.. The night wind tugged playfully at his coat, ruffling the fur along his arms as he leaned forward, peering down at the shrinking figure plummeting toward the pavement below. His perfectly sculpted brows rose high before he gave a light, careless shrug.

 

With a flick of his fingers, shadows gathered and coalesced into the familiar form of his staff. He caught it mid-spin, twirling it once with a flourish that would have made any showman proud. The microphone clicked into place at his lips, and his smile widened into something bright and exquisitely cruel.

 

“Salutations, my dearest listeners!” he cooed, voice lilting with static-kissed cheer. “This is your crimson darling - yes, indeed, the one and the only Alastor - returning to your radios after quite the… extended intermission. How I’ve missed your lovely ears! And how delightful it is to grace them once more.”

 

Across Pentagram City, radios crackled violently to life. Speakers buzzed. Phones rewired themselves. Channels - no matter how stubborn - twisted into alignment as though tugged by invisible strings. 

 

The entire city froze.

 

Alastor laughed softly. 

 

“Now, now… I know what you must be thinking. ‘Where has our dear Alastor been? Whatever kept him from our nightly rendezvous?’” His voice dipped into a velvet hum. “Worry not, my sweets. Your concern has been so deeply touching. Truly, your devotion warms this old soul.”

 

Below, Vox’s body struck the pavement with a catastrophic crunch - his scream cut neatly into silence.

 

Alastor didn’t so much as blink. His smile only brightened.

 

“Ah… yes. As some of you may have heard, my beloved husband and I have encountered a teensy little snafu. A domestic discord, if you will. A tale positively ancient in its simplicity. Why - one might even call it a classic!”

 

He chuckled - his delight apparent. 

 

“But fret not, my darling audience.” His eyes gleamed, crimson and hungry. “For your favorite host has returned to the airwaves… and my, oh my, do I have a show prepared for you.”

 

Alastor gave his staff a lazy twirl, the motion almost whimsical. Shadows spilled outward, coiling and bubbling until they ruptured into malformed shapes. 

 

Dozens of creatures snapped into existence’ small, sleek-bodied things with stark white, bulbous heads and curling horns. Their eyes burned red with a feral, almost gleeful malice that matched their summoner’s. Each breathed in sharp, rattling hisses, their mouths splitting into jagged, too-wide smiles.

 

“How eager you all are,” Alastor crooned, tapping the end of his staff against the air. “Do remember to pace yourselves, my darlings - leave enough of him intact for the finale.”

 

A chorus of chittering laughter erupted, high and unhinged. With a simple flick of his wrist Alastor gestured toward the cratered street below.

 

His minions obeyed instantly.

 

They descended as a living torrent, hurling themselves into the night with suicidal enthusiasm. 

 

Vox, still staggering upright from the brutal, bone-grinding halt of his fall, barely had time to lift his head. His screen flickered violently as his systems attempted to realign. The world swam. His thoughts stuttered. His hearing sensors pricked just in time to register a rising shrillness. 

 

He turned just as the first creature struck.

 

A white head filled his vision followed by claws. Sharp nails screeched against his reinforced glass like metal dragged across a chalkboard. The impact staggered him and before he could regain his footing another latched onto his leg, then his shoulder - then three more atop that.

 

They converged in a hurricane of tearing hands and shrieking joy.

 

White flashes bursting across his screen as error messages struggled to manifest. His sensors overloaded, drowning beneath the crush of bodies. Teeth gnawed at his flesh and claws scraped his casing. Their manic chittering filled his head. 

 

He swung an arm wildly and smashed one into the pavement with a snarl. It dissolved into dark smoke.

 

The swarm only converged in the immediate aftermath of its defeat, climbing him and burying him beneath their collective hunger.

 

Above, Alastor watched with calm delight. His grin widening at the chaos below. 

 

Alastor leaned forward just slightly, as though sharing a conspiratorial whisper with an unseen audience. His grin widened, teeth gleaming like polished ivory as the city’s radios crackled and bent obediently toward his voice.

 

“Ahh… it appears my dearest love is having a bit of trouble down there,” he purred, tone lilting with sugary pity. “Oh, my! He’s fallen - and wouldn’t you know it? He simply can’t get back up. Poor dear. I fear his age may have finally gotten to him.”

 

A beat of silence followed, theatrical and perfectly measured.

 

“But fret not, my devoted listeners. After all - ” he chuckled -  a soft, static-laced sound “ - I take great pride in being a dutiful wife. I’ll see to him. Personally.”

 

Inhaling sharply, Alastor vaulted from the shattered window with a dancer’s grace, his silhouette cutting clean through the crimson-lit air. Below, his laughter rippled like silk as the shadows obeyed the silent tug of his will. His little monstrosities skittered aside in a chorus of delighted titters, peeling away from Vox’s battered form. 

 

For the briefest moment, Vox tasted relief. He staggered upright, scanning frantically as static fizzled across his screen.

 

And then Alastor descended.

 

He hit Vox like a meteor driving him flat against the cement with a bone-rattling crack. Vox’s snarl warped into a burst of distorted audio as his head jolted back. His wife promptly straddles him - the position a mockery of previous intimate encounters. 

 

“Fuck!” 

 

“Oh,” Alastor purred, leaning close enough that Vox could feel the static hum of his breath, “my favorite position.”

 

His tongue swept languidly across sharp teeth, crimson eyes narrowing with hungry delight as claws raked down Vox’s flesh. 

 

Pain flared and circuits frayed with each pass of polished nails. And beneath Alastor’s smile was something feral - foam-flecked, incandescent with thirty years of suppressed fury.

 

But Vox was not without teeth.

 

With a sudden jolt of raw power, his claws shot up - blue talons clamping around Alastor’s wrists with bruising force. Electricity surged instinctively through his body, sparks dancing as he wrestled the Omega into a momentary stillness.

 

The pavement vibrated beneath them as they strained. 

 

“I don’t know,” Vox snarled through gritted teeth, voice glitching with rage, “how the fuck you’re doing this - ”

 

His grip tightened, sparks flaring.

 

“ - but it’s ending. Now.”

 

Alastor only leaned in closer, lips curling further back from his teeth in a snarl. 

 

“Do try, my darling,” he breathed.

 

Vox didn’t hesitate. The surge hit Alastor like a lightning strike, raw and punishing - electricity ripping down his spine in a violent cascade meant to seize his muscles and drop him like a puppet whose strings had snapped.

 

A horrid, guttural howl tore out of his throat his smile splitting into a rictus grin as static rippled across his teeth. His eyes went wide and dark.

 

But he did not collapse.

 

He thrived.

 

A choked gasp broke into wild, cascading laughter. 

 

He writhed in Vox’s grip, electricity shaking through him - his layered voice dripping with a terrible ecstasy.

 

“Yes!” he crooned through the spasms, laughter bubbling up like carbonated venom. “That’s it - oh, Vincent, my sweet conductor - play me again.”

 

The voltage doubled. 

 

Vox snarled, pouring everything he had into the discharge, determined to break him - to force him into submission. 

 

But Alastor only arched into it, shoulders shuddering with pleasure, breath hitching in manic delight. He looked radiant in his suffering.

 

Alastor’s claws flexed against the pavement, shadows gathering like a tide beneath him as his grin sharpened - 

 

“Why, Vincent,” he purred over the buzzing crackle, “I never knew you had such spark.”

 

The Alpha’s eyes widened in outright astonishment, the shock etched plainly across his projected face - exactly the expression Alastor had hoped to see. It ignited something deep and ancient within him, something he had spent decades burying beneath domestic obedience and pleasantries. 

 

For the first time in an age, he felt like himself again: the hunter who once stalked the shadows with ease, the ambush predator who thrilled at the moment prey realized it was already dead. 

 

His grin widened, wicked and delighted, the showman in him savoring every dizzy second of his husband’s dawning horror. 

 

“Oh, my dear…” he purred, “this is going to be splendid.”

 

❧

 

It became a spectacle worthy of the both of them. 

 

Vox, the gleaming titan of modern Hell - and Alastor, the resurrected nightmare he’d mistaken for a docile spouse. 

 

The clash was immediate and violent. Alastor strained every inch of his nascent arsenal, drawing upon shadows that writhed around him like living ink, tendrils snapping and recoiling with the giddy hunger of things freshly born.

 

His staff sang in his hands, exuding power he had not yet mastered. And though his inexperience showed in the occasional misstep or overextension, his mind miraculously stitched each failure into a sudden advantage. He adapted with terrifying speed.

 

Vox, at first, held back. 

 

Some misplaced instinct urged him to restrain his strength, to subdue gently, to “handle” his errant Omega without causing undue harm. It cost him dearly. Every moment he hesitated, Alastor pressed harder. 

 

And gradually Vox realized that mercy here was comparable to suicide. 

 

So Vox unleashed himself.

 

And portions of the city paid the price.

 

Their monstrous forms tore through streets. Each impact sent shockwaves rattling through the tower and pavement. Citizens fled as the two mated creatures now snarled and snapped with a primal ferocity that drowned the city’s usual cacophony. Their roars and curses cracked the air. Their struggles toppled signs, shattered windows and sent tremors rippling through the entirety of Pentagram City.

 

Two predators were locked in a vicious dance meant to end only when one finally stopped moving.

 

❧

 

“Get the fuck off me!” Vox roared.

 

 His voice cracked  into a distorted snarl as static fizzled along the edges of his screen.

 

Alastor only laughed as the two of them writhed in a brutal stalemate. Blood slicked their teeth, dripped from their jaws and streaked down their throats. Their immaculate clothing now hung in tatters. Clawmarks and scorch-marks scored their bodies. They looked less like husband and wife and more like two beasts. 

 

“Am I too much for you, Vincent?” Alastor sneered, his grin stretching impossibly wide. 

 

Vox’s screen suddenly flickered without warning. 

 

Calling… Shok.wav

 

Alastor froze, his eyes rounding in sudden realization. 

“…fuck.”

 

❧

 

Far above the ruined streets, something terrible emerged.

 

A mechanical leviathan - sleek metal plates, flashing neon gills and jaws lined with luminescent teeth. A shark forged from Vox’s technological empire; a guardian AI with superb processing power and the temperament of a well-trained dog. It scanned the battlefield, surveying the ruined portions of the streets. 

 

It stilled as it locked upon the ragged form of Vox.

 

Daddy.

 

The word pulsed across its lens as it identified the figure. 

 

Its head swiveled before its sensors locked onto Alastor, the formerly missing doe’s identity paired with a commandment. 

 

Mommy. 

 

Its simple mind whirred with affection. 

 

Capture. Mommy. 

 

The creature’s tail snapped, its body coiling with terrifying momentum as it launched itself forward, zeroing in on the pair. 

Chapter 30: 30

Alastor’s smile - already stretched wide with manic exhilaration - twitched into something brittle and panicked the instant the great mechanical beast lowered its head toward him. His pupils shrank and his laugh jumped an octave.

 

“No - no, no, no - Shok.wav, little love, Mommy’s busy with Daddy.”

 

The titanic shark paused, massive tail swishing with the eager wag of a canine granted attention. A thunderous metallic whump-whump-whump shook the street as its fins quivered, the air vibrating with a subsonic purr. It leaned down like a puppy begging for affection - except its mouth was full of teeth and its chassis hummed with several thousand volts of power.

 

Vox’s cracked screen flickered into an expression of pure relief, distorted but unmistakably joyful.

 

“Down! Off! No - No, Shok.wav!”

 

The increasingly shrill commands from the Omega went unheeded, of course. 

 

The beast lunged with explosive enthusiasm.

 

Alastor vanished in a crimson blur, shadows peeling behind him - but Shok.wav was relentless, bounding after him with catastrophic glee. Entire street blocks trembled as the great metal body slammed through them, jaws snapping in open delight as it pursued its fleeing “mother.”

 

Above the wreckage, Vox finally managed to stagger upright, breath heaving through his monstrous form. Blue static danced over his battered frame as he steadied himself, wild eyes following Alastor’s fleeing figure - Shok.wav  hot on his heels.

 

He swore under his breath. This wasn’t a fight anymore; it was a catastrophic meltdown.

 

He needed backup.

 

Vox clenched a clawed hand and digital sigils flared to life along his screen as he initiated emergency broadcasts.

 

Calling Valentino…

Calling Velvette…

 

Signals pinged out into the city.

 

They had to subdue Alastor.

 

They had to figure out what the fuck had happened to him.

❧

Alastor was forced onto the defensive almost immediately, the world blurring into streaks of red and ruin as he darted between collapsing rooftops. The monstrous shark hounded him with single-minded enthusiasm, its vast body cutting through the air with the terrible grace of an orca chasing down a cornered seal. Every pivot, every feint and every silent calculation was met and mirrored by the creature’s uncanny instinct - its massive form weaving through the skyline as though the city were little more than a playground. 

 

Windows exploded in cascading sheets. Concrete groaned and gave way. Entire structures folded in the wake of its pursuit; the destructive chase carving a violent path through Pentagram City’s heart.

 

“Get this fucking thing off me!” Alastor snapped, his voice crackling with irritation beneath the hum of static. 

 

This was Vox’s doing. 

 

Or, rather - a byproduct of Vox’s obsession. 

 

The Alpha’s fixation on sharks had eventually birthed this mechanical monstrosity and Alastor had been present during the creation. He remembered the way Shok.wav’s digital eye had blinked upon activation… how the beast had immediately imprinted itself upon both of them. 

 

A “family unit,” Vox had joked at the time.

 

How fucking quaint.

 

Now that same creature was barreling after him with delight.

 

Shok.wav’s colossal jaws yawned open, the serrated plates parting with a mechanical shriek as it attempted - yet again - to swallow him whole. Alastor twisted sharply, barely evading the gaping maw; the air displacement alone sent him careening through the gaping hole of a crumbling high-rise.

 

One mistake. 

 

One miscalculation.

If those jaws closed around him, he’d be trapped inside its armored gut until Vox - or God forbid, Valentino - fished him out.

 

He couldn’t handle Shok.wav. 

 

Not by himself. 

 

Not in this newly fledged state.

Not when his powers were unrefined and freshly awakened. 

 

His strength had begun to fray. The strain of their monstrous battle, coupled with the continued expenditure of his abilities, caused him to teeter at the edge of true weariness. His speed wavered. His vision blurred with the faintest ghost of dizziness.

 

He ducked beneath a falling I-beam, thoroughly scuffed hooves skidding across fractured concrete as Shok.wav barreled past above him, missing by inches.

 

With the instinctual grace of a doe fleeing through underbrush, Alastor wove himself into the wreckage their “little disagreement” had carved across the city. His slight frame now proved his greatest asset. He slipped through the chaos with uncanny agility, darting between splintered girders and collapsing masonry. 

 

Let the damned beast plow through the skyline like a leviathan; he would use the devastation as camouflage. He would bury himself in the insanity that he had helped unleash.

 

The tactic worked.

 

Shok.wav eventually veered wide, overshooting him in its sweeping arc and losing sight its “mother”. The thunder of its passage rattled the alleyway, then drifted away.

 

Alastor pressed his back against the cold, polluted cement. His chest heaving and static hissing faintly in each strained exhale. The alley was narrow and slick with the runoff of a city. But it granted him cover - which meant it was serviceable. 

 

He forced himself still and turned his attention inward.

 

A soft, sickly glow pulsed beneath the tatters of his suit. Green stitches began weaving themselves across torn flesh. They knitted muscle and skin with precision, closing the worst gashes and sealing them until the blood slowed from a steady flow to a trickle. Each thread tugged with a faint sting, Alastor grimacing tightly. 

 

He exhaled slowly.
 

“Good heavens,” he heaved with a cracked, exhausted brightness, “I didn’t realize how exhilarating marital strife could be.”

 

He tipped his head back and cast a wary glance skyward.

 

Nothing.

 

Shok.wav had simply… vanished.

 

A creature of that size did not disappear without reason. 

 

His smile tightened.

 

He didn’t know where it was. Not from this vantage point. 

 

“Well,” he murmured under his breath, tone feather-light and brittle, “that is decidedly inconvenient.”

 

He began to ease toward the mouth of the alley, one slow step after another. Every footfall was deliberate. His claws skimmed the wall for balance as the last remnants of adrenaline guttered through him.

 

He had done enough for one evening.

The city had seen his debut. Vox had endured his opening act. Lucifer would be watching with that insufferable, knowing smile. And he? He was hemorrhaging strength, presently held together by borrowed magic and sheer obstinacy.

 

It was time to leave.

 

Time to slip back into shadow and stitch himself whole before the next curtain rose.

 

His breath hitched and he forced a steadying inhale, the sound wavering like a radio tuning through static.

 

“Yes… quite enough for today,” he whispered, shoulders trembling as he gathered himself.

 

Alastor sunk into the shadows, slinking into the darker, more quieter section of the city. 

 

❧

 

“You alright, papi?”

 

Valentino’s voice drifted through the smoke first. Vox stood amid the destruction, having reconfigured himself back into his humanoid silhouette. His screen-face flickered with static and fury, the projected features twisted into a tight, murderous grimace.

 

Valentino landed lightly beside him, wings folding in a lazy furl as his crimson eyes swept the wreckage. The moth whistled under his breath, low and appreciative.

 

“That fucking bitch,” Vox growled, fingertips grazing the cracked edge of his head as though afraid the touch might worsen the damage.

 

“Mmm… your little cervato did a number on you, baby,” Valentino purred, his tone a blend of sympathy and delight. 

 

He leaned in, examining the damage with a lover’s fondness and a sadist’s interest.

 

Vox’s projected gaze narrowed. 

 

Shok.wav had already been dismissed - banished with a snarl and a signal the moment the collateral damage threatened to spiral into something that would attract too much attention. They would have to hunt Alastor manually. 

 

Track him. 

 

Corner him. 

 

Break him. 

 

Drag him home.

 

And they would.

 

Together.

 

The alternative was unthinkable. Unacceptable, even.

 

Vox straightened slowly, adjusting his partly ruined collar with a trembling hand. The fury simmering beneath his screen pulsed hot and erratic. 

 

“He made a goddamn spectacle of me,” he growled, bearing his teeth. “Of us. Broadcasting his little tantrum like some deranged headliner…”

 

Valentino hummed thoughtfully, brushing dust off Vox’s shoulder with languid strokes. “Well… good news is, sweetheart, the public eats drama for breakfast. All we gotta do is give them a story.”

 

And Vox already had one.

Everyone’s darling radio host - the adored voice of the people - had clearly gone mad.

He was unstable.

An Omega plagued with a severe case of hysteria and wielding a power he could scarcely comprehend. 

 

A tragedy, really. 

 

And Vox? 

 

The ‘long-suffering spouse’. 

 

A man burdened by grief and concern. 

 

“Yes…” he murmured, a slow smile curling along the curve of his projection. “We’ll make sure they know exactly what happened. Our beloved Alastor has clearly lost his mind. He’s dangerous - violent. Unfit to be left unsupervised. That’ll alleviate some of the responsibility.”

 

Valentino laughed, the sound sharp and mean.

 

Vox turned his gaze toward the ruined skyline, fury pulsing behind the glass.

 

“He can’t hide,” he said, each word cold and absolute. “Not in my fucking city. Not from me.”

 

They’d need their third. 

 

❧

 

Velvette swept across social media. 

 

She moved with predatory finesse, flooding every platform with a curated storm of clipped footage, sympathetic statements and performative concern. Each piece is specifically tailored to cast the Vees as tragic victims rather than the architects of their own chaos. 

 

Anything that contradicted the narrative was drowned under dummy accounts and strategically elevated commentary. The illusion of “diversity of opinion” was effortless; a chorus of voices, all under her command. 

 

She toyed with the situation as though it were a branding opportunity. Threads and hashtags fluttered between her fingers like ribbons as she weighed how best to shape public sentiment. A scandal of this scale had weight - it needed a historical tether, a mythic flare.

 

And then the perfect comparison came to her.

 

Lilith.

 

The only Omega in Hell’s history whose rebellion had sparked a war. Whose refusal to bow to her Alpha husband still lingered in Hell’s collective memory like a half-forbidden fairy tale. She was ancient history but the story endured. 

 

And that was all Velvette required.

 

It was laughably easy to draw parallels between the pair. 

 

And that would cause those to ponder over the implications. 

❧

 

Hell’s population fractured almost instantly, opinions spilling across every street corner, broadcast channel and feed with ferocity. Nearly everyone had heard Alastor’s sudden return to the airwaves; had listened to that discordant hum that threaded through his voice, the shrieks and static-laced impact of his battle with Vox bleeding into the transmission. 

 

Without the Vees’ curated spin settling in yet, the public had been left alone with the raw implications: an Omega displaying power on par with an Alpha Overlord.

 

It was unthinkable.

 

It contradicted the natural order -  the hierarchy drilled into them in life and death.

 

 Omegas nurtured, Alphas commanded and Betas facilitated - that was the script. 

 

And yet a single broadcast accompanied by a handful of distant, grainy clips of Alastor tearing through steel and flesh had shaken that foundation. Some whispered wonderingly, even reverently. Others felt a cold dread pool beneath their ribs.

 

If one Omega could overturn their expectations… how many more could?

 

And that discomfort made them vulnerable.

 

Because social media never waited. It shaped and sculpted. 

 

Velvette’s campaign seeped in like a toxin. Edits, insinuations and historical parallels flooded the feeds. Commentaries phrased as questions. Questions framed as warnings. Timelines lit with cautionary tales and side-by-side comparisons. And before long, the quiet awe curdled into suspicion, then into fear.

 

Perhaps Hell was on the verge of repeating one of its most infamous catastrophes? 

 

Whispers of Lilith resurfaced.

 

And slowly the public began to look at Alastor not as a victim escaping his husband… but as an echo of a historical Omega whose defiance had once ignited a war.

Chapter 31: 31

Alastor hissed between clenched teeth as Lucifer’s thumbs dug mercilessly into the dense knots beneath his shoulder blades.

 

“Fuck - Lucifer.”

 

A soft laugh - warm and infuriatingly smug -  ghosted above him.

“Forgive me, pet. You are wound appallingly tight.”

 

“‘Wound tight,’” Alastor groused into the pillow, voice thick with strain. “It feels more like you’re trying to pry me apart.”

 

“Hm. Yet here you are - still in one piece.” 

 

Lucifer’s hands traveled lower, sweeping in long, practiced lines that forced the muscles to unclench whether Alastor wished it or not. 

 

“Surely you can endure a modicum of discomfort.”

 

“This was advertised,” Alastor snarled, “as a method of relaxation, Sire. I feel as though you are sculpting me with a sledgehammer.”

 

“Oh, hush. I’m being gentle.”

 

“You lie as easily as you breathe - ow, Christ, Lucifer!”

 

Another low, dark chuckle.

Lucifer straddled his hips with casual ownership, his thighs bracketing Alastor’s body. Every shift of weight was deliberate. The King’s palms pressed firmly into the small of his back, coaxing tension free with a precision bordering on surgical.

 

“Relax,” Lucifer drawled, smoothing a hand down until it cupped the soft flesh of Alastor’s rear. He squeezed, slow and appreciative. “You have such a divine body.”

 

Alastor’s answering growl was muffled by linen. “The massage, Lucifer.”

 

“It is part of the massage.”

 

“Grabbing my ass is not part of the process.”

 

Lucifer made a pleased, noncommittal hum as he squeezed again. “Interpretation varies between practitioners.”

 

The devil’s hands finally shifted upward, sweeping thoughtfully across the scars and half-healed gashes tracing the deer’s sides. His touch softened and became almost reverent.

 

“You were splendid,” he said. “A terror in crimson.”

 

Alastor only answered with a grunt, burying his face deeper into the pillow.

 

Lucifer’s tone brightened, pleasantly conversational. “Already they whisper of you, you know. ‘The Second Coming of Lilith.’ A charming exaggeration.”

 

“Mm.” Alastor did not rise to the bait. He merely endured the glide of Lucifer’s palms, the kneading pressure and the faint sting where magic mended what brute force had broken.

 

A sudden pause.

A click of a cap.

A cool liquid dribbled onto the King’s hands before he resumed - sliding lotion into fur and skin with long, sweeping strokes.

 

“I’d hate to see such exquisite flesh undone,” Lucifer said. 

 

“I was under the impression you adored such sights,” Alastor replied, dryly.

 

“Only when I am the one creating the art.”

 

Alastor scoffed. “Lovely.”

 

Lucifer leaned down, his breath ghosting the nape of Alastor’s neck. “I feel a rather unpleasant pang whenever another harms you. I’d much rather be present for such a delightful moment. Your torment is especially exquisite.”

 

“How honored I am,” Alastor deadpanned.

 

“On your back.”

 

A sigh. 

 

Still, Alastor turned - short mane spilling across the pillows. Lucifer settled between his legs as though claiming a throne, wearing only loose white trousers. 

 

“Spread, pet.”

 

With a dark glower, Alastor complied - the King smoothly settling between his long legs. 

 Lucifer’s fingertips traced the lines of his abdomen, his ribs and the dips of his hips - drawing reluctant shivers from tense muscle.

 

“That’s it,” Lucifer crooned. “True pleasure is dull when unaccompanied by pain.”

 

Another scoff. Lucifer answered it with a firm plunge of pressure into the juncture of his hip. Alastor’s back arched despite himself.

 

“You’ll remain in the castle until you’ve recovered,” the devil continued. “A… questionable decision descending upon your husband so soon. You were not prepared.”

 

A harsh breath escaped Alastor. He knew he wasn’t prepared. But desperation had driven him - desperation and spite.

 

Lucifer smiled faintly. “Were you so eager to see him again?”

 

“Hardly,” Alastor muttered.

 

“He is your husband,” Lucifer said, far too smoothly. “It is natural to be drawn to those who have marked you. And that man only really desires what is his due.”

 

Alastor’s smile sharpened into something venomous. “And what is his due?”

 

“Your body,” Lucifer answered. “And your submission.”

 

“And yours?”

 

Lucifer’s fingers curled beneath his chin, guiding his face upward.

“The very same.”

 

Alastor’s answering laugh was soft and filled with a sour amusement. 

 

“What a fucking joke,” Alastor hissed, flinging an arm over his face as if shielding himself from the absurdity of it all. “What a fucking joke my existence is.”

 

“It is amusing, isn’t it?” Lucifer replied, mildly. 

 

Alastor lowered his arm only enough to stare at the gilded ceiling. His smile felt painfully brittle. 

 

“They’ve spun quite the narrative,” Lucifer continued, almost conversational. “A poor little Omega gone mad from stolen power. Too delicate in the mind to handle so much strength. And your poor, devoted husband desperately struggling to bring his darling wife back to heel.”

 

Alastor snorted. “I look forward to the fool’s attempts. That man will never let me go.”

 

“Hardly surprising,” Lucifer mused. “You truly are delectable, Alastor. A rarity. Your allure rivals Lilith’s. A single glimpse of you is enough to stir the loins of any sane Alpha.”

 

“How flattering,” Alastor replied, dully. 

 

Lucifer’s eyes shine with predatory amusement. 

 

“Tell me,” he purred, “do you truly believe Vox will tolerate your little escapade? Or that he will allow you to roam unclaimed? He knows now, you see. He knows you fed him lies. Knows you skirted the natural order. And knows you denied him his heir.”

 

Alastor stiffened, jaw clenching.

 

Lucifer pressed on. 

“He will come for you. He will break you. He will drag you home and breed you until your body bends to instinct and his will. He will fashion you into the Omega he believes you should have always been. He will ‘help’ you recognize your place.”

 

The doe’s breath hitched - rage, flickering in his crimson gaze.
 

“And what,” Alastor asked, voice low and trembling with fury, “is my place, exactly?”

 

Lucifer’s smile widened, his eyes shining with a cruel light. 

 

“Whatever your betters decide.”

 

“And are you one of my betters, Lucifer?” Alastor asked, his tone dipped in acid.

 

“Oh, most certainly,” the King replied, certain. “You’re beneath me in every conceivable sense. Metaphorically, spiritually… and physically, as we speak.”

 

Alastor shot him a dry, unimpressed look; Lucifer’s answering laugh was a soft ripple of delight, the kind a man gives after watching a puppy snap its teeth.

 

“I own you, Alastor,” Lucifer continued, voice smooth. “Utterly and without contest. Your husband may rut into you until his screen cracks, Adam may paw at you with those filthy battle-hardened hands - but none of that alters reality.”

 

His fingers drifted along the curve of Alastor’s jaw. 

 

“You belong to me,” Lucifer purred. “You are my pretty pet. My delightful little trinket. My favorite acquisition in centuries. Every breath you take, every ounce of power you wield and every scrap of defiance you cling to… those, too, are mine.”

 

He leaned closer, his smile sharpening into something cruel. 

 

“And that,” he murmured, “is a truth you will never escape, no matter whose bed you crawl into.”

 

Alastor’s permanent smile twitched. 

 

“You know, Alastor… I’ve never been the most monogamous soul,” Lucifer mused, conversational. “My nature runs contrary to expectation… contrary to order. Truly now - do you imagine I’d froth with possessive jealousy because another happens to mount you, pet?”

 

Alastor let out a low, humorless breath. “I’d rather make do without the ‘mounting’, Your Majesty.” 

 

Lucifer’s gaze glittered, amused. 

 

“You are… remarkably difficult to satisfy. Your body responds - beautifully, I might add - but there’s a curious hollowness beneath it. As though your flesh plays the part. Yet your soul refuses to join the performance.”

 

“Sex,” Alastor replied, voice cool and clipped, “is nothing more than a mechanical gesture between beasts.”

 

“A delightfully cynical philosophy,” Lucifer purred. “And yet - …” his fingers skimmed Alastor’s ribcage, before dipping lower, “... cynicism does not make the act any less pleasurable.”

 

The doe sucked in a sharp, involuntary breath as Lucifer’s slick fingertips drifted lower. Moisturizer made the touch soft as it lightly teases at his exposed folds. Alastor’s lips peeled back from his pointed teeth, a warning snarl disguised as a smile.

 

“Perhaps,” Lucifer drawled, his voice dipping low “a pelvic massage is in order. I’ve heard it works wonders on… hysteria.”

 

Alastor barked out a laugh. 

 

“‘Hysteria,’” he spat. “I despise that fucking word. It’s just another excuse for Alphas to force an unwilling Omega onto their backs and call it treatment.”

 

Lucifer chuckled, low and delighted.

 

“Oh, I agree entirely,” he said, smoothly repositioning himself until his mouth hovers dangerously close to the doe’s cunt. “But the terminology has its charms… especially when it irritates you so exquisitely.”

 

“Are those your intentions, Lucifer?” Alastor sneered. “To irritate me? Well. Congratulations. You’ve succeeded.”

 

Lucifer answered not with indignation, but with leisurely indulgence. He lowered himself until his cheek settled comfortably against the soft inside of Alastor’s thigh, as though it were a silk cushion created solely for his repose. 

 

His gaze lifted. 

 

“I do try, my dear.”

 

❧

 

The devil reclined across the expanse of his bed, one arm folded behind his head -  the other draped lazily over his abdomen. His gaze followed Alastor with predatory leisure as the deer slipped from the sheets and began assembling himself piece by piece. Undergarment first - then the tailored trousers. Every motion was taut and sharp.

 

“You should join me tonight, Alastor.” 

 

Alastor did not so much as glance his way.

 

“Is that a request,” he replied, coolly, “or an order, Your Majesty?”

 

Lucifer, of course, ignored the question entirely. 

 

“Not many are granted such an opportunity.”

 

“How unspeakably flattering,” Alastor returned, his tone brittle at the edges. “But I fear I’m not in the mood.”

 

A soft huff of amusement. 

 

“Are you ever?”

 

“No.”

 

“Ah, my difficult pet,” he sighed, luxuriating in the irritation rolling off the deer like heat from a furnace. “You make denial into an art form.”

Chapter 32: 32

Adam hovered in that precarious space between useful and utterly insufferable. A boorish creature by disposition, he swaggered about the Morningstar Castle with the kind of modern arrogance that grated upon Alastor’s every refined sensibility. His bravado was immense - rivaling Lucifer’s, though the King at least cloaked his superiority in elegance and wicked humor. 

 

Adam, by contrast, was brute force distilled into humanoid shape.

 

And, inexplicably, he had decided he liked Alastor.

 

Alastor could not fathom what, precisely, the Executioner found so enthralling; but the man persisted with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. He appeared in doorways uninvited. Lingered at hallways with a lazy grin. Let his crimson gaze roam with shameless appreciation.

 

Alastor, with the resignation of an Omega who has survived far worse than unwanted attention, offered him the barest acknowledgments: a nod here and a clipped greeting there. It was easier than sparking yet another round of Adam’s theatrical sulking. 

 

And admittedly for all his violence, his sexism and bravado - Adam was no Vox. 

 

Nor did he wield ownership with the delighted cruelty Lucifer favored.

 

No - Adam was simply a nuisance. A large, dangerous and loud-mouthed nuisance.

 

What grated most, however, was the look the Fallen Angel gave him. That bright, boyish flash of hopefulness. Alastor knew precisely what that expression meant. He’d seen it enough among Alphas who thought an Omega’s presence was invitation enough.

 

And Adam was nothing if not transparent in his desires.

 

“Adam.”

 

The Fallen Angel’s head snapped up instantly, eyes brightening with an eager spark. 

 

“Yeah, babe?” he replied, grin spreading wide and full of teeth.

 

Alastor didn’t bother softening the blow.

 

“I’m not fucking you.”

 

The grin collapsed so abruptly it was almost comical. Adam’s entire expression crumpled from delighted anticipation into a thunderous scowl.

 

“Oh, come on - are you fuckin’ shittin’ me, here?” he barked. “I’m literally the least shitty choice you’ve got!”

 

Alastor stared at him.

 

Not blinked. Not frowned. 

 

Stared.

 

An expression of such exquisite incredulity crossed his features that even Adam faltered for a heartbeat, caught between offense and confusion. The doe’s brows lifted, as though silently questioning whether the man standing before him was suffering from head trauma - or simply born defective.

 

Adam bristled. 

 

“What? I mean it! I ain’t a sadistic TV-head freak and I ain’t your high and mighty sugar daddy. I’m - hell, I’m nice compared to the other assholes in your life!”

 

Alastor’s smile sharpened. 

 

“Yes,” he said, dryly. “That is precisely the tragedy.”

 

Adam skulked off in a huff, his heavy footsteps echoing indignantly down the corridor. Every few paces he muttered something under his breath - little obscenities that tangled together. Alastor caught fragments of it; ungrateful, tight-ass deer, doesn’t know a good thing if it bit him, Lucifer’s pampered little bitch  - all delivered with a wounded ego. 

 

And yet, for all that theatrical sulking, Alastor knew one thing with absolute certainty.

 

Adam had no intention of giving up.

 

The man was persistent to the point of derangement. He was a dogged, bullheaded creature. Unfortunately, there was little Alastor could do to achieve true distance. Adam was the Executioner - he drifted where he pleased, lingered where he pleased and had the audacity to act as though he belonged anywhere and everywhere. 

 

And Lucifer -  in his infinite cruelty - had explicitly instructed Alastor to remain within the castle grounds until his recovery was deemed complete.

 

So Adam had free reign.

 

And Alastor was trapped.

 

Still, confinement had its uses. Within these gilded halls, he could think. He could plan. He could perfect the persona he intended to unleash upon Pentagram City when the time came.

 

A shame that his thoughts were often interrupted at random.

 

“What are these, Adam?”

 

Alastor didn’t bother to mask the chill in his tone as he reclined beneath the pergola, steam curling lazily from his teacup. The gardens were immaculate. A perfect haven for quiet contemplation.

 

Which meant -  inevitably -  that Adam would find him.

 

The Executioner sauntered up with the graceless swagger of someone convinced he was charming, grinning like a fool as he thrust a bundle of… something toward Alastor.

 

Flowers, apparently.

 

If one were being generous.

 

Alastor lowered his tea, staring at the offering with a flat, unimpressed gaze. They were wilted at the edges, crudely yanked from the earth, stems uneven and petals crushed between Adam’s heavy claws. Judging by the shredded gap in the nearest flowerbed, the castle gardener was likely having a conniption somewhere out of sight.

 

And then there was the secondhand embarrassment that it almost took his breath away.

 

Adam only grinned harder, practically glowing with self-satisfaction, as though he’d just presented the doe with a crown of roses rather than a mangled fistful of vegetation.

 

Alastor inhaled slowly through his nose.

 

“Adam,” he said, “… what possessed you to butcher the royal gardens?”

 

The man’s smile faltered into something puzzled - almost affronted - before reshaping itself into a bemused half-grin.

 

“Omegas like shit like this. Don’t they?” he asked, genuinely confused. 

 

Alastor closed his eyes.

 

A quiet, mournful sigh slipped from him - soft, drawn-out and steeped in a weariness. 

 

“Adam,” he breathed, pinching the bridge of his nose with elegant precision, “some Omegas may appreciate floral gestures… but typically not when they’ve been… excavated.”

 

He opened his eyes and regarded Adam. 

 

“And certainly not when they are presented with the same enthusiasm one might use to deliver a severed limb.”

 

Adam blinked, utterly unbothered. “So… that’s a no?”

 

“A resounding one, darling,” Alastor replied, taking another sip of tea as though to cleanse his palate of the entire interaction. “Do put them back before the gardener commits suicide.”

 

What followed was a fresh cascade of grumbles as Adam turned on his heel and skulked off across the garden paths. He kicked at gravel and cursed under his breath.

 

The insults drifting back to Alastor were as colorful as the unfortunate flowers he’d massacred. 

 

Alastor merely lifted his teacup, watching the spectacle with a tired, half-lidded serenity that suggested he’d already resigned himself to an eternity of this particular brand of idiocy.

 

❧

 

It took several weeks before Alastor had begun to properly replenish his energy reserves. His wounds had closed quickly enough, but the exertion that came from his confrontation with Vox had hollowed him out. He moved through the grand hallways of the Morningstar Castle as he recovered, simmering with frustration at the forced stillness. 

 

Yet he could admit, begrudgingly, that it wasn’t terrible. The castle was quiet, its routines soothing. And Lucifer -  to his mild shock -  proved far more tolerable company than Adam; whose one-sided courtship had become a daily irritation.

 

When Alastor at last mentioned his predicament to Lucifer, the King steepled his fingers and regarded him with an unreadable, almost indulgent curiosity. Then he stroked his chin, appearing genuinely contemplative.

 

“I’m aware you’re not overly inclined toward intimacy, Alastor,” Lucifer began.. “However… I’m also aware of your nature. You’re generally aware of its utility. A creature such as yourself can weaponize attraction as easily as breathing.”

 

He lifted his glass, bringing it to his lips - his eyes never leaving the doe.

 

“Now, while Adam is under my dominion - he retains enough agency to prove useful. Even with the… limitations I’ve imposed.”

His lips twitched. 

 

“If you require certain interventions beyond your control, he is capable of acting where you cannot. Why not offer him something in exchange for a favor?”

 

Alastor had sat stiffly, thinking. Turning that suggestion over and over in his head. Because, much to his annoyance, Lucifer was correct.

 

And the devil’s words inevitably dredged up the thought he tried so hard not to fixate on: the boon that protected him from Vox. Nineteen years left. Nineteen years before his mind softened, before Vox’s influence seeped in like a rot. 

 

He needed allies. 

 

Even deeply imperfect ones.

 

“He’s capable of striking a deal?” Alastor asked, carefully.

 

Lucifer’s smile sharpened.

“Most certainly.”

 

“I see,” the doe murmured, the gears already beginning to turn behind his eyes.

 

❧

 

“Adam?”

 

The Fallen Angel halted mid-stride, still as though he wasn’t entirely convinced he’d heard correctly. When he turned, his crimson gaze fixed upon Alastor with an almost comical incredulity. This was the first time the Omega had ever approached him. Usually Adam was the one circling like an overeager vulture.

 

“Yeah?” he drawled.

 

Alastor descended the last few steps of the courtyard stairs with an easy grace, hands clasped neatly behind his back. Adam’s head tilted sharply.

 

“I wished to speak with you,” Alastor continued, voice carrying that velvety old-world cadence Adam pretended not to enjoy. “Privately.”

 

“‘Sup, babe?” Adam asked, immediately failing to sound nonchalant. 

 

That arrogant smile of his surfaced anyway. 

 

The doe offered an elegant, almost serpentine smile in return.

 

“I have a proposition for you, Adam. An exchange…”

A pause. 

“... of services.”

 

Adam blinked. 

 

Then squinted.

 

“…‘Services?’” he echoed.

 

“Yes,” Alastor replied, smoothly. “A deal.”

 

He said the word with the finesse of a showman announcing the next act. Adam’s posture straightened. His grin spread wide, fanged and delighted.

 

“Well damn,” he said, stepping closer. “Now you’ve got my attention.”

 

“Well, you see, my dear Adam…” Alastor began, allowing the Fallen Angel’s looming proximity without so much as a twitch. His voice dipped into that familiar, honey-laced cadence his audience enjoyed. “My heat approaches in a few months.”

 

The effect was immediate.

 

Adam’s crimson eyes snapped into sharp focus. The leer that unfurled across his face was utterly obscene. His wings even gave a betraying twitch of anticipation. Alastor watched the reaction with the faintest curl of amusement tugging at one corner of his perpetual smile.

 

“And,” he continued, lightly, “I find myself in need of… companionship. I’ve been tended to quite dutifully for the past thirty years, after all. To go without now would be terribly inconvenient.”

 

Adam’s excitement spiked, so blatant it almost radiated off him in waves. He looked moments away from vibrating out of his robes. Alastor indulged him with a languid blink.

 

“In exchange,” the doe went on, “for allowing you the pleasure of my company during that time… you will grant me a favor. A very specific one.”

He let the next line fall with pointed delicacy.

“One the King has granted me explicit permission to request.”

 

Adam’s excitement dimmed a touch, replaced by a narrowing of the eyes; a flicker of caution present. 

 

“And what’s that?” he asked, guarded.

 

Alastor told him.

 

And the Fallen Angel listened. 

 

Adam froze halfway through the explanation, his brows rising and his expression shifting from suspicion… to confusion… to mild surprise.

 

“Huh,” Adam muttered, blinking once. “That’s… not the worst ask.”

 

Alastor arched an elegant brow.

“Well?”

 

Adam scratched his chin, absently. “And I get full access?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“All three days?”

 

“All three,” Alastor confirmed. 

 

A slow, wolfish grin split Adam’s face. 

 

“Ohhh, babe,” he drawled, delight saturating every word, “you got yourself a deal.”

Notes:

The next chapter will center around Vox, Valentino, Velvette and Angel - and then we'll be returning to Alastor.

Chapter 33: 33

She cherished Alastor. 

 

Velvette felt wrong - unfinished, as if someone had yanked the final accessory from an otherwise immaculate outfit. 

 

It wasn’t merely aesthetic; it was visceral, a hollow tug beneath her ribs that hadn’t eased since the moment Alastor vanished. Their little collective had been cracked partly down the middle.

 

Vox, Valentino, Angel Dust… and Alastor.

 

They had been a perfect set - a designer’s dream ensemble. They moved around each other like seasoned performers. They filled the dead air in each other’s lives with a kind of intimacy that Hell rarely allowed. A pack, yes - but also a brand, a household name and a empire of personalities she had molded and polished until they gleamed.

 

And then one piece disappeared and the entire silhouette collapsed.

 

She remembered the call. 

 

Vox’s voice tight, strained in a way that made her stomach drop. Her hands froze mid-scroll, her glossy nails hovering above the keyboard as panic sharpened into something icy. 

 

She dove into the feeds with a desperation that shattered her usual detached poise. Cameras. Street shots. Gossip streams. Even fan-edited footage. She scoured them all for a flash of red fur, a hoofprint or a glimmer of those tailored outfits she’d forced him to wear.

 

Nothing.

 

No messy candid shots. No accidental street captures. Not a single stray scent report from Hellhound patrols.

 

Just absence.

 

An awful, echoing void where their Alastor should have been.

The silence was insulting. 

 

Her world tilted as a phantom limb was  ripped away. She felt abandoned - even betrayed by the universe for letting him slip through their manicured fingers. The city felt grayer. Their headquarters quiet.

 

Velvette hated every second of it.

 

And then - 

 

He returned.

 

But not the Alastor she adored - the coy little crimson darling she’d dressed and refined. 

 

No - something else walked the streets. Something monstrous and impossible, carrying his smile like a razor’s edge. She had watched the footage the moment it hit the net, her heart twisting painfully as she rewatched every frame. She assessed every camera angle, every bystander video and every shaky rooftop recording.

 

This wasn’t the Omega she’d known.

 

This was something that snarled in open defiance. 

 

She sent the files to a specialist, demanding a dissection of every unnatural feat he displayed. Dozens of interpretations poured in and none of them aligned.

 

None offered the answer she wanted most;

 

Where had he gone?

And who had brought him back with power that rivaled the impossible?

 

Velvette sat before her screens long into the night, the glow painting her face as she leaned in, lip caught between her teeth.

 

Because something had taken her Alastor and returned a demon she didn’t recognize.

 

And she couldn’t decide which frightened her more.

 

They could fix this.

Of course they could fix this.

 

The thought pulsed through Velvette like a mantra. There wasn’t a single thing the Vees couldn’t break down and remake. They had reshaped industries, toppled syndicates and curated empires from chaos. What was one Omega compared to everything they had already conquered?

 

They’d done it before, hadn’t they? 

 

They'd pressed him into domesticity with soft hands and harsher expectations. Smoothed his edges. Trimmed his wildness into something picturesque. He could be guided again. Broken again. And put back together in the shape that fit them.

 

Alastor would return to the form he belonged in…
 

…. he'd become their Alastor. 

 

Their beautiful, sharp-toothed pet.

 

Velvette clung to the image.

 

Vox’s steady hand, Valentino’s velvet charm and her own relentless precision; all working in perfect unison to carve him back into their lives. They had an eternity to pull him to heel - to correct and love him in their own voracious, possessive way.

 

He would come home.
 

They would make sure of it.
 

And once he did they’d be whole again.

 

A complete set.
 

A flawless ensemble.

 

A family.

 

Her lips curled at the thought - soft at first and then crueler.

 

Yes.

They would fix him.

 

Even if they had to see him broken at their feet. 

❧

He adored Alastor. 

Valentino was viciously possessive of his little family. His love was expressed through subtle or overt violence. He herded with his hands, with his smile and with that poisonous purr that promised pleasure or punishment depending on compliance.

 

He was not - nor had he ever been - a gentle man.

 

Valentino was predatory by nature. A creature of appetite dressed in glamour and cologne. Mercy was something he extended only as decoration, never as instinct.

 

And Alastor - 

Alastor belonged to him.

As surely as he belonged to Vox and Velvette.

 

Just as Angel Dust belonged to all of them.

 

Family meant ownership. Family meant blood and leash and the slow destruction of personal boundaries until everyone bled into everyone else. 

 

And Valentino adored that.

 

He still remembered the first time he’d laid eyes on the doe. How his gaze had snagged upon him. The red hair, the sharp smile and the elegant frame built for tragedy and spectacle. He was a creature born to be displayed and ruined. 

 

He had mourned that Vox had gotten to him first.

 

What a marvel Alastor would have been under his direction.

 

How exquisitely he’d have come undone beneath studio lights.

 

How deliciously he’d have wept for the camera.

 

But he made do.

Compromise was sometimes necessary, even for a man like him.

 

He contented himself with partial ownership. Vox, ultimately, controlled the reins - but Valentino was free to decorate the bridle.

 

And Alastor had been good.

 

He was obedient. Soft in the ways that mattered and brittle in the ways that pleased them. A lovely little ornament of domesticity. A sweet, little companion for Angel Dust. A red-haired darling whose presence stabilized them.

 

Alastor kept their Angel content. 

 

Kept him grounded and happy.
 

They made a beautiful pair…

They were aesthetic and complimentary. 

 

And that - in Valentino’s eyes - was exactly how family was meant to function.

 

Once he was back within their grasp, the doors were locked, the lights dimmed and their hands were on him again -  everything would fall neatly back into place.

Their fractured little unit would be whole. Their dynamic restored. Their roles reaffirmed.

 

Alastor would be punished, of course. Thoroughly.

There would be consequences for daring to slip the leash they had lovingly fastened around his neck. Valentino imagined the process with an almost dreamy satisfaction; the breaking-down, the trembling pleas and the shuddering collapse.

 

But afterward?

 

Oh, afterward they’d pamper him.

Stroke him.

Dress him.

Feed him.

Smother him in affection until the bruises faded and the fear softened into compliance. He would relearn their rhythm - how to lean into their touch and how to fit himself into the spaces they left for him.

 

He’d love them again.

He would.

 

Valentino’s grin spread slowly.

 

Even if they had to force him to crumble until he remembered exactly who he belonged to.

 

❧

 

He wanted Alastor. 

 

Vox was relentless in his pursuit.

Obsessive, even.

 

Alastor was out there in the vast sprawl of Pentagram City. It gnawed at him. Kept him pacing. Kept him restless. 

 

He replayed every scrap of footage again and again, searching for anything he might have missed.

And then he saw it.

 

The ring.
 

Their ring.

The glint and gleam of red and blue stones. 

 

For a moment hope pierced through the haze of fury. A dangerous, fragile thing. If he still wore the ring, then he must still love him. 

 

Must still long for him. 

 

But that small hope curdled quickly.

 

Because despite the ring, despite the life constructed for him and despite the family Vox had been ready to build…

Alastor had fled anyway.

He had run from the home they’d made.
 

He’d fled from the future Vox had planned down to its sweetest, most intimate details.
 

Run from motherhood - from domesticity and from everything Vox had offered with open arms.

 

He’d denied him the one thing he had wanted most.

 

But it wasn’t too late. 

He clung to that certainty with the same fervor he once clung to Alastor’s trembling hands. They could rebuild what had fractured. They could reclaim what had been stolen. All Vox needed was for him to remember his place. To transform into the soft, warm and beautifully dependent wife he had once been.

 

Then they could try again.

Properly try.

A clean slate. 

 

A fresh start free of the pills that had poisoned his body each and every year.

And Vox could already picture it with agonizing clarity.

 

Their quiet home humming again with the sounds of domestic warmth. Footsteps that were not only his own. A voice greeting him at the door. Soft laughter echoing through rooms that had grown painfully empty in Alastor’s absence. The gentle, steady rhythm of family life filling the hollow corners that once felt complete.

 

He could fix this.

He would fix this.

 

A small, hopeful smile curved across his screen.

Even if it meant dimming that fire that burned so beautifully in those crimson eyes.

 

❧

 

He loved Alastor. 

 

His love for Alastor ran deep. It wasn’t familial, nor was it merely friendly; he didn’t dare name it, because naming it would make it real, and real things in Hell had a way of being snatched away. 

 

But he recognized it - something deep and heavy in his chest - something slowly forged in whispered conversations shared in the dim corners of the penthouse, their heads leaned together; breaths mingling as though sharing a secret world only the two of them could access.

 

In every moment where Angel Dust had faltered beneath Velvette’s pointed disdain or Vox’s cold disappointment or Valentino’s venomous mockery -  Alastor had been there. Steady and strangely warm. A presence that softened the cruelty of the others simply by existing in the same room. He never feared Alastor the way he feared the rest. The doe was sharp, yes - but his sharpness never cut Angel. 

 

When Alastor vanished, Angel felt a grief that wrenched at his very soul. 

But tangled in that grief was something brighter.

Hope.

 

Alastor was free.

 

Gone from them.

Gone from him.

But free.

 

And Angel Dust had been forced to stay behind.

 

A traitorous piece of his soul ached to pull Alastor back into their orbit. To see him again. To sit beside him again. To breathe his scent and press closer. To exist in that small, fragile bubble of gentleness they had built. He hated himself for wanting it.

 

But he knew dragging Alastor back would be selfish.

Because Alastor was more than a pet of the Vees.

More than a beautiful Omega meant to be paraded or pampered or punished.

 

He was powerful now.

Truly powerful.

Angel had seen it in the footage

 

And part of him knew the truth:

 

Alastor was finally becoming who he was meant to be.
 

And Angel Dust could only watch from afar, aching and proud in equal measure.

 

He should be quietly pleased.

 

And yet…

 

His trembling smile faltered.

 

“Alastor,” he breathed, curling tightly into himself. “Oh, God. Alastor. It hurts so bad. So fuckin’ bad. I miss you.” 

Chapter 34: 34

His ‘empire’ stood on the precipice of collapse, swaying at the edge like a drunk clinging to the last chip in his pocket. 

 

Life as a gambler had always been exactly that - a gamble - and Husk had long understood that luck was a resource with an expiration date. Still, the illusion of glamour persisted; the neon lights hummed, the crowds funneled in and out and the clatter of machines filled the air. 

 

Yet beneath all that glitter lay a suffocating debt that wrapped itself around the foundations of the establishment. His position as an Overlord had always been tenuous, but now that fragility was becoming impossible to ignore.

 

There simply weren’t enough wins. 

 

Not enough whales eager to bleed themselves dry at his tables. Not enough patrons with pockets fat enough to keep his empire afloat. It felt as though fate itself had grown tired of humoring him, allowing the decline to creep in slow and merciless. 

 

Even his grip on his territory had begun to loosen and Husk could sense the subtle vibrations of hunger from the other Overlords. Predators could always detect the shift in the wind and he knew they would eventually descend upon him in droves, tearing apart whatever remained once the lights finally dimmed.

 

Such was the inevitable end for many who clawed their way to the top.
 

And in Husk’s case, the truth pressed down with even greater weight.

He was a Beta. 

 

There was no prophecy behind him - no biological edge - no innate authority to lean on. Only skill, grit and a reputation that was beginning to tarnish.

 

And once a Beta Overlord started to slip, there were very few who bothered to catch them.They weren’t considered worth the effort. 

 

But he clung to the comforting lie that he could still pull himself out of the spiral. That somehow he’d rise from the ashes of his misfortune. Husk had always lived with one eye on the table, waiting for Lady Luck to finally slip her hand into his and turn the game in his favor. Surely she would come through again. She always had… until she hadn’t.

 

Yet he told himself it was only a matter of time. One streak or perhaps a single monumental payout would be enough to haul him out of the canals of debt and deposit him back where he once stood among the upper echelon of Betas who carved out power in Pentagram City. 

 

That fantasy shone just brightly enough to keep him at the table. It painted him in a better light - allowed him to pretend that he was still a contender. And so he held onto it desperately, the way a drowning man holds onto anything that floats. 

 

A great change was coming. 

 

He felt it in the marrow of his bones, that subtle prickle that precedes a shift in the tide. Something was moving toward him, inevitable as a bad hand and twice as cruel. Husk had expected ruin, perhaps a final shove into the abyss he’d been teetering over for years. What he had not expected was the opposite.

 

And to his utter astonishment, that change arrived wearing a familiar face.

 

❧

 

This particular casino was one of the few Husk still personally oversaw - a dim, subterranean den that stank of smoke, cheap liquor and desperation. 

 

The walls, soaked in decades of misery, seemed to sweat with old sins. Patrons slumped over tables with hollow eyes, their chips stacked beside them. Here, mouths stayed shut, and secrets died where they were spoken. Discretion wasn’t merely expected - it was survival.

 

It was also a place where souls were tossed onto the table as casually as pocket change. Where laughter curdled into rage, where triumph dissolved into ruin and where more than a few wretches had clawed at the door before finally accepting they had nothing left to bargain but themselves.

 

A filthy, wretched place.
 

But profitable. Exceptionally so.

 

And despite all its rot, Husk managed it with a certain weary precision. He knew which regulars cheated and which debts were close to default. The den was ugly - but it was his ugly and he kept it stitched together with the stubborn pride of a man who refused to let hell itself see him falter.

 

The usual clientele were Betas - naturally. Down-on-their-luck and generally overlooked creatures carrying the scent of desperation like a second skin. They haunted the tables with hollow gazes, forever praying the next hand might save them from the hole they’d dug themselves into. 

 

Occasionally an Alpha swaggered in. Cocky bastards who flashed their souls like jewelry, eager to impress whatever poor sod happened to be watching. Big spenders - usually - but loud and arrogant enough to make Husk’s nose scrunch lightly with irritation. Omegas, when they showed at all, arrived draped on an arm; pretty little ornaments, ultimately. Their existence ultimately watered down to being just that. 

 

So when a lone, red-haired dam walked in without escort, the entire den took notice.

 

Heads lifted and eyes sharpened. Some stared blatantly; others darted glances over their cards with a furtive sort of dread. 

 

Recognition passed like a spark across dry tinder. 

 

That face, that smile -  the one plastered across every newsfeed for months. 

 

The truth of his presence would have spilled forth - but the club’s number-one rule kept the room silent; you didn’t run your mouth, not here; unless you fancied losing something you valued.

Husk kept his gaze steady on the Omega as he moved through the haze of smoke. The patrons initially granted him a wide berth, instincts screaming that this was trouble incarnate. And hell if they were wrong. Something about that bright, painted grin was a loaded gun disguised as charm.

 

But Husk, despite himself, remembered a very different version of the same doe; a drenched, shivering creature curled in a filthy alleyway years ago, rainwater dripping from his lashes as he glared at anyone who dared come near. He’d been a feral sort of pretty at first glance back then - wary and clearly running from something.

 

Running from Vox.

 

Everyone in Hell knew Vox. 

 

And if they didn’t, they learned quickly. 

 

The Overlord of circuits and screens had an immense presence within the boundaries of Hell. The idea that the dolled up Omega who later appeared on live television had once sought to escape him had lingered in Husk’s thoughts. 

 

After that, the couple had presented themselves as picture-perfect. Their domestic bliss paraded for all to see. 

 

Then came the disappearance. 

 

The media devoured it. 

 

Hellhounds scoured every corner of the city. Even one of Husk’s gambling dens had been torn apart in the search, every drawer overturned and every wall sniffed for clues.

 

Weeks bled into months. Silence choked the airwaves where a familiar voice once crooned. Not knowing gnawed at everyone. The station went mute. The star vanished.

 

And then he returned.

 

But he wasn’t just a pretty face anymore, nor the skittish creature Husk once found in a rain-soaked alley. The thing that walked into his casino tonight was something else entirely; something sharp and terrible wearing an Omega’s skin.

 

And every soul in the room felt it.

 

“‘Husk’, was it?”

 

The feline’s ear twitched. He did not startle - but something close to it tugged at his spine. Alastor slid onto a barstool with languid precision, one leg elegantly crossing over the other. 

 

Husk cleared his throat, returning to scrubbing a cloudy smear from a glass.

 

“Yeah. That’s me,” he said, flatly. “What can I do ya for?”

 

A soft hum slipped from Alastor’s throat.

 

“I’ll have a drink, my dear. Something strong. Something formidable.” His eyes glinted with a strange, static warmth. “Surprise me. I do so love a little excitement.”

 

Husk paused mid-polish.

 

The Omega’s tone was pleasant. Polite, even. But Husk had been in this business long enough to recognize when someone was courting danger - or was danger.

 

“…You sure you can handle that?” Husk asked, blunt but not unkind. “Last I remember, you were more the delicate type. Omega metabolism ain’t  - ”

 

Alastor leaned forward, his grin widening until it bordered on vicious charm.

 

“My good man,” he crooned, voice softened into a lovely cadence, “I assure you, I have handled far stronger spirits than anything you have.”

 

A faint buzz underlined his words, like distant interference creeping through an old broadcast.

 

Husk squinted at him.

 

“…Right,” he grumbled, setting the glass aside. “Your funeral.”

 

“Oh, Husk,” Alastor crooned, tapping two elegant claws against the bartop in a jaunty rhythm, “I’ve already had one of those. Do mix generously.”

 

The bartender scowled - but he reached for his strongest bottle anyway.

 

And Alastor watched his every movement with a shining, crimson gaze.

 

❧

 

Alastor became an unwelcome fixture of the gambling hall, drifting through its smoke-thick atmosphere night after night as though the place had been built for him. He arrived several times a week, his attire ever-changing yet always touched with red - sometimes a muted garnet waistcoat or a crimson blouse with a ruffled neckline and dark, tight trousers that flared at the ankles. 

 

Whatever the variation, he carried the color like a signature. 

 

At first, the usual patrons kept a cautious distance. They remembered the broadcasts. They remembered the footage. They remembered the way Vox had been torn into by a twisted version of the Omega. 

 

And here was the creature responsible, lounging comfortably at a poker table. 

 

But fear had a strange way of gradually transforming into fascination.

And fascination - in Hell - was the first step toward ruin.

 

The Alphas drifted toward him first. 

 

They hovered, flattered and postured beneath his assessing gaze. And Alastor welcomed their attention with grace, never crossing into intimacy but offering just enough charm to feed their swollen egos. A word here, a witty aside there and a laugh sharp enough to prick the skin. Each interaction is just enticing enough to keep them circling.

 

Husk watched it unfold from behind the bar, unease settling into the base of his spine. The Omega wasn’t flirting - but whatever he was doing, the Alphas responded like insects drifting toward a bug-zapper. And Alastor wielded that subtle lure with deliberate flourish.

 

And then came the games.

 

That was when Husk’s concern deepened. 

 

Alastor played everything but he dominated Poker. 

 

He devastated people at Poker. 

 

His smile never betrayed a damn thing. Cards slid between his fingers with a delicate grace. He called bluffs without blinking and crafted his own with infuriating ease. Those crimson eyes gleamed with a predator’s delight every time a hand was dealt, every time an Alpha leaned forward thinking they had him cornered and every time he raked in another mountain of chips.

 

And the bitch was loaded.

 

He tossed out stacks of chips as though they were candy wrappers. Some nights he’d buy in six times over what most patrons made in a month. Husk had watched him wager an amount that would have collapsed smaller casinos entirely without so much as a twitch.

 

Every time that toothy smile brightened, Husk felt the hair on the back of his neck lift.

 

This wasn’t an Omega playing cards.

 

This was something else wearing an Omega’s shape that left its opponents dazed and devastated. 

 

And every time Alastor won - and he almost always won - he would gather his chips neatly, offer the table a polite bow and murmur in that radio-perfectvoice:

 

“Thank you kindly for the game, my darlings. Shall we do this again tomorrow?”

 

And they always said yes, drawn in by his allure - hopeful for another moment of his attention. 

 

❧

 

“Why don’t you play with me, Husk?”

 

Husk didn’t bother to hide the flat look he shot the deer’s way. Alastor had taken to gravitating toward him every night - sliding into the nearest stool and attempting with infuriating persistence to draw him into the same orbit as the reckless bastards at the poker tables.

 

But Husk knew a trap when he saw one.

And a beautiful, smiling Omega who’d thrown Vox out a window was a goddamn bear trap. 

 

“You know my hands’re tied, sweetheart,” he grunted, returning to polishing a glass that was already spotless. “Manager’s work. Someone’s gotta keep this dump runnin’. Can’t be dealin’ cards all night.”

 

He avoided the doe’s gaze on purpose. Those crimson eyes lingered too long, as if they could pry him open with a glance. Husk wasn’t naive enough to give him the chance.

 

Alastor tsked softly, a theatrical little sound and crossing one leg over the other with deliberate elegance. 

 

“You wound me, dear Husk.” His grin widened, polite and predatory all at once. “I’ve yet to encounter a proper opponent. Someone who might test my limits.”

 

Husk exhaled through his nose, slow and aggravated, before finally meeting the Omega’s gaze.
 

It was a mistake.

 

Those crimson eyes were too bright. Too fixed. Too delighted by the smallest hint of acknowledgment.

 

Husk felt his fur prickle.

 

“‘Course you ain’t met a real opponent,” he muttered. “Ain’t nobody with even a shred of goddamned sense is stupid enough to sit across the table from you right now. Not with the whole city waitin’ for Vox to rip it in half lookin’ for ya.”

 

Alastor’s smile did not falter. If anything, it sharpened.

“Ah, but you would make an exception for little old me... wouldn’t you?”

 

Husk set the glass down with a little more force than necessary.

 

“No,” he replied, flatly.

 

Alastor leaned in, voice dropping into a quiet purr that crawled under the skin like radio static.

 

“Not even for a lonely little Sinner haunting your bar? Hoping for a moment of your company?”

 

Husk snorted. “Tryin’ that ‘siren’ crap on someone who ain’t interested ain’t exactly classy.”

 

“Classy?” Alastor laughed, thoroughly amused. “My dear Husk, I’m not trying to seduce you. I merely enjoy the… challenge of prying open a locked door. And yours, I fear, is exceedingly well-barred.”

 

“You’re damn right it is.”

 

Alastor only smiled wider - as if that were exactly the answer he wanted.

 

“There’s no need to be so shy around me, Husk.”

Alastor’s voice dripped with mockery, his smile a crescent of polished yellow teeth. “I’m left with the distinct impression you believe I’ve come here with ill intent.”

 

Husk didn’t bother hiding the way his tail lashed once behind him. He’d been raw with anxiety for days - waiting for Vox’s enforcers to barge in and for the walls of this den to cave under the weight of Overlord politics he’d never asked to be tangled in.

And yet here the bitch sat. Unbothered. 

 

Smiling. 

 

“Then how ’bout you enlighten me, sweetheart,” Husk growled, leaning forward across the bar. His eyes narrowed into slits. “What exactly d’you have in mind?”

 

The Omega didn’t flinch. If anything, he looked pleased by the aggression. Alastor leaned in just enough for the low lights to glint off his sharp teeth. He then raised a single clawed finger and pressed it beneath Husk’s chin.

 

The movement was smooth and brimming with confidence. 

 

Husk didn’t move. He refused to give this damn deer the satisfaction. But his ears did flatten for the briefest moment as Alastor whispered; that voice tickling at his mind. 

 

“I haven’t forgotten about you, my dear Husk.”  His grin only widened. “I never had a name for the face - until now.”

 

And suddenly Husk was pulled back to that night decades ago; a rain-slick alley, a trembling Omega curled in shadow with hollow eyes. 

 

Husk had offered a hand. 

 

Alastor hadn’t taken it.

 

He swallowed the memory and jerked his head away as the doe’s hand drifted boldly toward his ears, likely seeking to caress them.

 

Like he was some kind of goddamned pet. 

 

“I’ve got a proposal, you see,” Alastor purred. 

 

“A proposal,” Husk echoed, unimpressed enough to bare a hint of his pointed fangs. 

 

“Indeed.” The deer’s voice bordered on sing-song. “I find myself rather bereft of allies these days. Quite tragic, isn’t it?”

 

That implication hit Husk like a thrown bottle.

 

He stiffened, every instinct screaming no, no, absolutely the fuck not.

 

“I’m not fuckin’ with a runaway Omega,” he snapped. “Your husband’ll bring this whole damn club down around my ears the second he catches your scent. I ain’t dying for your mess.”

 

Alastor chuckled, delighted. 

 

“I can make it worth your while,” he sang, voice lilting. “After all… you’re teetering on the edge of collapse, aren’t you?”

 

Husk’s expression sharpened.
 

The insult landed.
 

But he didn’t rise to it. 

 

And yet something within him stirred. 

 

Alastor continued, ignoring the shift in air like a showman moving through applause.

 

“One game, Husk.”

 

The cat opened his mouth to refuse, already tasting the ‘no,’ - but Alastor lifted a clawed finger again. 

 

“Just one. With very generous odds, might I add.” 

 

Those crimson orbs gleamed. 

 

“Win or lose… I suspect you’ll find yourself compelled to partake.”

 

And Husk felt the room tighten around him as he sucked in a harsh breath. 

Chapter 35: 35

Alastor balanced the cigarette between his lips with idle elegance, the thin line of smoke curling upward in a slow drift. His eyes lowered to the cards fanned neatly in one hand, his expression unreadable - nothing but the soft arch of a brow and the faint tilt of his mouth.

 

Across from him sat Husk.

 

The feline’s posture was tight, shoulders hunched just enough to betray tension without losing the gruff professionalism he prided himself on. His ears twitched once before he forced them into stillness. He held his cards close to his chest, gaze flicking between the hand, the table and the Omega across from him. 

 

The silence between them stretched. Not oppressive - simply dense. Weighted with the haze of cigarette smoke, the shuffle of cards and the faint clatter of distant coins. 

 

Alastor exhaled another plume, the smoke wafting lazily toward the dim lights above and let his gaze wander. 

 

He found himself studying the creature seated before him.

 

He compared him to the man from the alleyway all those years ago. 

 

A moment he’d carefully preserved within the realm of memory. 

 

He’d clung to that image far longer than he had expected.

 

A runaway Omega, soaked in rain and desperate… and a stranger who had crouched before him, voice soft in a way few bothered with in Hell. 

Not pitying.

Not greedy.

Not calculating.

 

Just… present.

 

Husk had stood out. A stray note in an otherwise discordant melody.

 

He sunk, momentarily, into memory - a slight distance present within his gaze.

 

Then Husk’s tail flicked. The motion betrays the barest hint of irritation and the doe regains his focus. 

 

His smile deepened. The tip of his cigarette glowed. His thumb brushed the corner of a card with leisurely precision as the past folded back into the present - into this small, dim table where fate shuffled as readily as the deck.

 

A game between a desperate Overlord and a resurrected nightmare.

❧

31 years ago…

Alastor released low, quivering breaths that rattled through his ribcage. 

 

His body was still betraying him - muscles firing in uneven spasms as he lay tightly curled against the limousine’s leather seat. Vox knelt beside him, one clawed hand cupping the deer’s chin with rehearsed gentleness, tilting his face up to examine him. Those pupils were blown wide, glassy and unsteady; his ears plastered flat to his skull in a silent snarl.

 

“It’ll pass, sweetheart,” Vox murmured, soothing in tone but clipped at the edges.

 

Alastor found enough strength to wrench his head from the Alpha’s grasp. The motion was small  but unmistakably hostile. A withering glare followed. Vox’s projected face pinched in displeasure as he drew back, settling onto the opposite seat with a frown.

 

“You’re not making this easy for me,” he sighed, soft but strained. “I’m trying here, Alastor.”

 

The Omega sucked in a harsh breath, his frame plagued by intermittent tremors that seized through him like aftershocks. He tasted blood at the back of his throat. His voice emerged ragged.

 

“Trying what, exactly?”

 

Vox leaned forward slightly, elbows resting neatly on his knees. “I’m trying to do my best to make you happy.”

 

Alastor barked out a laugh.

 

“‘Happy,’ Vincent? Don’t be obtuse. You’re doing what you want. You care about your own happiness. Your image, your fantasies, your delusions. Who cares about little old me?”

 

The Alpha awarded him a flat, warning stare. A slow inhale. Then another sigh - heavier this time.

 

“You don’t know what you want, Alastor. Not really.”

 

“Oh,” Alastor drawled, voice bitter and thin, “so I’m an invalid now? How wonderful. I’ve always dreamt of being medically reclassified by my future husband.”

 

“I mean it, sweetheart,” Vox said, his tone softening to an infuriating degree. “You don’t know what you want. Not anymore.”

 

Alastor’s claws curled against the  expensive leather, his smile carving itself into something sharp and trembling at once.

 

“Perhaps,” he hissed, voice dripping with venom even as it wavered, “but I know precisely what I don’t want, Vincent. And right now? It’s you.”

 

The limousine hummed beneath them.

 

Vox’s frown sharpened into something severe. 

 

“We’re moving up the wedding,” he repeated.

 

Alastor stared at him, disbelief cracking open into fury. 

 

“Fuck, Vincent. Everything you do  - everything - infuriates me. Can you even consider - just once in that head of yours - that I was happy in Cannibal Town? That maybe I don’t want this ridiculous spectacle you’re forcing on me?”

 

“You were happy when we courted,” Vox replied, tone maddeningly patient. “When you visited - ”

 

“There’s a difference,” Alastor snapped, cutting him off with a snarl, “between courting and marriage. And you didn’t even ask me. You asked Rosie.”

 

“She - ”

 

“You didn’t ask me.” His voice cracked, sharp. “You don’t ask me anything. Anything! Fuck!”

 

The outburst burned through him, leaving his limbs shaking. He curled in on himself, pulling his knees tight to his chest and pressing his hands hard over his face as though attempting to smother the rage. His body still throbbed from the earlier shock - a tremor of pain running through him every time he breathed too deeply.

 

“Sweetheart - ” Vox tried.

 

“I’m not your sweetheart,” Alastor bit out, voice muffled behind trembling claws. “I want to go back to Cannibal Town. Lock me in that damn house and leave me alone. I’d rather rot in that place than deal with you right now. Do you understand me? Do you?”

 

The Alpha’s tone dropped, quiet and dangerous. 

 

“Lower your voice, Alastor.”

 

“No!”

 

Static flickered across Vox’s face. “I said - ”

 

He reached out sharply, claws clamping around Alastor’s wrist with absolute authority and wrenching his hand away from his face. The deer’s eyes blew wide - rage mingling with fear, pain and helplessness.

 

Vox leaned in, looming over him.

 

“ - lower your voice.” 

 

His tone was calm. Even. And cold. 

 

Alastor’s snarl broke off as though severed. 

 

Something in him faltered. Slowly, almost mechanically, he stilled beneath the Alpha’s grip. His shoulders dropped, the tightness in his frame collapsing inward. His head bowed, ears folding flat. His eyes slipped shut in a gesture that wasn’t quite obedience… but it was close enough to feel like surrender.

 

The limousine hummed softly around them, the only witness to the moment he yielded.

 

For a breath he drifted somewhere outside of himself. Not forward -  not into the nightmare of the future Vox insisted upon… but back. 

 

A stranger had crouched beside him then.

 

A gruff voice. An offered hand. A flash of compassion in a city that devoured it.

 

The only soul who’d ever paused long enough to ask if he was alright - not because he was desirable but because he was a shivering creature in a storm.

 

A kindness he hadn’t trusted.

 

A kindness he hadn’t taken.

 

Alastor’s throat worked, a flicker of heat stinging behind his eyes before he forced it away. His lip curled faintly - not at Vox - but at himself.

 

He should have tried. Should have taken the hand. Should have run until his lungs burst.

 

He regretted it. 

 

The doe kept his head bowed -  breath shallow - eyes shut against the weight of the life closing in around him.

 

❧

 

Present…

 

He offered Husk power.

 

Not because he was feeling particularly charitable, but because power was the one currency that made even the most jaded creatures of Hell sit up and listen. And Husk reeked of the kind of quiet ruin Alastor found endlessly intoxicating. His debts clung to him like oil. His failing empire sagged beneath the weight of bad luck and worse decisions. 

 

He was a man drowning with no lifeline in sight.

 

How deliciously easy it was, then, to extend one.

 

A full restoration of his standing. Every debt wiped clean, his territory fortified and his reputation polished to something almost respectable. Alastor dangled the vision before him, knowing full well how few in Hell were ever granted such a reprieve.

 

Of course Husk was tempted. 

 

But the true fun lay in the alternative - should the poor cat lose. Alastor did not demand servitude; no, no - too obvious. What he sought was partnership. A binding thread sewn neatly through their fates. Loyalty when summoned. Presence when needed. An ally with claws and cunning - useful tools for the future he intended to carve out of this wretched city.

 

He would save Husk’s crumbling little kingdom regardless of the outcome. But a loss would tie the feline to him in a way that would not easily be severed. 

 

And oh, how that terrified him. 

 

Alastor saw it in every twitch of his whiskers and every stiff bristle of fur. Husk was clever enough to understand that aligning with a creature like him - now hunted by Vox and the Vees with a rabid fervor - would paint a target upon his furred posterior. 

 

It was a wager sharp enough to bleed a man dry.

 

And Alastor relished the tension that coiled in Husk’s shoulders as he weighed it.

 

Such exquisite expressions, he thought, his grin widening. 

 

No wonder Husk had lingered in his memory all these years.

 

❧

 

“That ring.”

 

The words landed between them like a coin dropped onto marble. 

 

Alastor didn’t look up at first. He merely let out a soft hum, exhaling a ribbon of smoke that curled delicately through the stagnant air.

 

“Mm?”

 

Husk didn’t bother masking the bite in his tone. “You left that husband of yours face-down in the dirt.”

 

A slow, amused smile crept wider across the deer’s lips. “I suppose I did,” he agreed lightly, tapping ash into a tray with theatrical grace.

 

“Why bother wearin’ that damn thing then?” Husk nodded toward the wedding band - those red and blue stones glinting. “I’d think you’d have tossed that shit into the gutter the second you ran.”

 

That finally drew Alastor’s attention. His smile didn’t falter, but something tightened beneath it. 

 

Husk saw it. And pressed.

 

“Do you love him?”

 

The cards stilled in the Omega’s hand. The cigarette smoldered between his claws, momentarily forgotten.

 

Alastor’s gaze snapped to Husk. “My dear fellow,” he began, “that is an intimate question.”

 

Husk didn’t flinch. He didn’t even look up from his cards.

 

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s why I’m askin’. Do you love him?”

 

Alastor held Husk’s gaze for a long moment. Something flitted across his expression. And then, with a flick of his wrist, he returned his attention to his hand.

 

He did not answer.

 

And the feline doesn’t press. 

 

❧

 

 

Husk dealt with a steady hand, though Alastor could see the faint tremor beneath the feline’s practiced exterior. Cards slid over the felt with the soft hiss of silk against skin, each one building the tension like a violin string pulled tighter and tighter.

 

Alastor’s expression remained inscrutable, his smile carved in place like a porcelain mask. That smile made him impossible to read. His posture was elegant, relaxed and almost bored. And yet the way he tapped ash from his cigarette with rhythmic precision hinted toward a mind in perpetual movement. Every card that touched his claws was met with a tiny flare of satisfaction, barely perceptible but unmistakable. 

 

He wasn’t merely playing the game. 

 

He was conducting it.

 

Husk, for his part, watched his opponent with increasing wariness. 

 

But Alastor acted as though he hadn’t a care in the world. He hummed faintly under his breath, the tune warbling with a faint static distortion that made Husk’s fur prickle. When the dealer revealed the next round, Alastor casually flicked a chip into the pot - far more than the current wager demanded. The sound of the chip stack landing was sharp. 

 

“Well now,” Husk muttered. “Someone’s feelin’ gutsy tonight.”

 

“Why, my dear Husk,” Alastor crooned, tilting his head, “one must invest if one wishes to win. Don’t you agree?”

 

They continued dealing, round after round - the stakes climbing. Husk’s claws clicked softly as he gathered his chips. Alastor’s cigarette slowly burned down to the filter, replaced by another that lit itself with a pop of embers. 

 

The tension thickened. 

 

The turning point came with the final draw.

 

Husk slid the last card toward Alastor. The Omega’s claws hovered above it for a moment before he flipped it over with two claws.

 

His smile sharpened.

 

Husk felt his heart drop.

 

“All in,” Alastor drawled. 

 

He pushed forward a mountainous stack of chips. This was enough to erase Husk’s debts ten times over. 

 

Enough to save him. 

 

Enough to ruin a man.

 

Husk swallowed, feeling the dread coil in his gut. The instinct to fold itched at the back of his mind - but he didn’t. Against every rational impulse, he matched the bet.

 

The reveal came agonizingly slow. Husk lay his hand out first: a flush, clean and strong. A winning hand in any ordinary game.

 

But this wasn’t ordinary.

 

Alastor laid down his cards with a predator’s poise. One by one, they painted a picture of quiet devastation.

 

A full house.

 

Husk felt his breath hitch. 

 

His claws dug into the felt.

 

And Alastor’s smile… oh, it was radiant. As though Husk had gifted him something precious.

 

“My, my,” the Omega purred, voice smooth. “Such a valiant effort, dear Husk. You almost had me.”

 

The feline stared at the cards, then up at the Omega whose eyes glinted.

 

Alastor leaned back, cigarette perched jauntily between two claws. He inhaled it greedily, his eyes fluttering shut in open relish. His nostrils flare, releasing the fragrant smoke in a plumed rush before speaking. 

 

“Well,” he crooned, “I believe this means we have an arrangement.”

 

Husk exhaled, his shoulders sagging. 

 

“…Yeah,” he muttered. “Looks like we do.”

 

And Alastor’s delighted laugh echoed through the gambling hall, warm and chilling in equal measure. 

Chapter 36: 36

25 years ago…

 

“Well, any good news, my dear?”

 

Rosie’s question drifted across the sitting room like perfumed smoke.

 

Alastor reclined in his usual seat, its frayed edges repaired countless times by Niffty’s meticulous little claws. This was one of the few places in Hell where he could pretend, if only briefly, that he still possessed some semblance of his former life.

 

Vox had allowed these visits only once Alastor had “settled comfortably” into his role as a spouse; though comfort had very little to do with it. Still, an allowance was an allowance and he accepted what he could. 

 

Rosie and Niffty were the closest things he had to family, the only threads of genuine affection tethering him to the life he’d once cherished.

 

Rosie, in particular, was a strange echo of his mother - unyielding in her belief that she knew what was best for him. Even after facilitating the marriage that trapped him, she wrote letters drenched in floral perfume - each line asking after his health. 

 

She requested visits often. And after long stretches of silence on his part, he had finally relented. 

 

Now he sat across from her at a small round table, ceramic platters set between them. Neatly sliced portions of lightly seared Sinner flesh rested upon each plate. Alastor closed his eyes as he savored a bite, letting the tenderness melt across his tongue. 

 

Vox had never shared his fondness for this particular cut, insisting on substitutes that lacked the comforting richness Rosie always procured for him.

 

He dabbed politely at his mouth with a handkerchief.

 

“‘Good news?’” he echoed, raising a brow. 

 

Rosie leaned forward, her eyes bright with nosy delight. “Well, you and Vox surely have been trying for a little one. You’d know by now if you had a darling bun in the oven, wouldn’t you?”

 

The cheer in her tone disquieted him somewhat. 

 

Still, he offered her a soft, unbothered smile. 

 

“No such luck, I fear,” he replied, lightly. “Perhaps next year.”

 

Rosie released a disappointed little tut, her painted lips pursing. She meant well. She always meant well. That was the tragedy of it.

 

Alastor lifted another delicate morsel of meat to his lips, savoring the texture more than the taste. She asked after Vox, after his budding career as a radio host - and the discussion drifted along with practiced ease. 

 

Rosie seemed genuinely pleased that he was “settling into” his role as a wife. She spoke the word with such unthinking fondness that the corners of his smile tightened imperceptibly. Of course she expected him to play the part with grace. That had always been her way. 

 

Her only true disappointment revealed itself quickly enough; the absence of a child. She’d been so looking forward to cooing over a little one, to visiting the nursery, to watching the next generation toddle about Cannibal Town with wide eyes and sharp little teeth. 

 

Children were rare and Rosie fully intended to play doting grandmother to the first of Alastor’s line.

 

“Any news from the doctor?” she asked brightly, pouring him another cup of tea. “Perhaps a bit of assistance can nudge you both in the right direction.”

 

Alastor forced a light laugh. He lifted the cup with a steady hand that did not betray the sudden heaviness settling in his stomach.

 

“Vox has made arrangements, yes,” he replied, smoothly. “Unfortunately, it appears we’re simply… unfortunate. The window is so terribly small, after all.”

 

Rosie gave a sympathetic nod, her expression softening into something maternal and encouraging. She reached out to pat his hand.

 

“Well,” she chimed, “there’s plenty of time. Just keep trying, dear.”

 

Alastor’s smile did not falter.

 

His claws, hidden beneath the tablecloth, curled ever so slightly.

 

❧

 

Present.

 

“How dare you. How dare you, Alastor.”

 

Rosie’s voice struck the air like shattered glass, utterly shrill. The parlor trembled with her outrage, lace curtains fluttering as though recoiling from the sheer force of her indignation and power. She swept toward him in a storm of perfume and fury, her heels clicking sharply against polished floorboards.

 

“You show your face here after that spectacle - after humiliating yourself, humiliating your husband and  humiliating everything we built - for all of Hell to see!”

 

Alastor stood perfectly still, his posture impeccable and his hands folded neatly behind him. His smile remained fixed. Only the faintest flicker in his crimson eyes betrayed anything beyond the facade. Rosie’s anger washed over him like heat over glass; but he absorbed it without bending.

 

Her fury was not the cruel, calculated ire of an Overlord. It was something far more intimate. A matron’s outrage. A mother’s scolding shriek. 

 

Rosie did not allow him a breath before she snapped at the handful of patrons lingering nearby.

“Out. All of you. Now.”

 

Her customers hesitated for half a heartbeat before scurrying toward the door. She waited until the last one fled, her features tight with rage. 

 

Only then did she turn back to him, her hands trembling at her sides.

 

“For years I watched after you. Kept you safe. Fed you. Housed you.”

Her voice trembled not with fragility, but with a wrath sharpened by betrayal. Rosie paced before him, her immaculate skirts swirling with every agitated step. 

 

Alastor watched her with an almost academic patience, remaining politely silent as she raged.

 

“And this is how you repay me? Repay Vox?” Rosie spat, her eyes flashing. “You had everything. Everything. Wealth. Fame. A doting husband.”

 

He did not flinch. His gaze followed her movements with a slow, deliberate interest.

 

Rosie stopped pacing abruptly, her head snapping toward him with sharp, glittering focus.

 

“Do you know what Vox told me?” she hissed, her voice dropping into a whisper. “He told me about your little trick.”

 

Alastor’s smile did not waver, but something in the air around him shifted. 

 

Her eyes narrowed, venom gleaming in their dark depths.

 

“Do you have any idea how hurt he was,” she continued, each word dripping acid, “finding out that his wife lied to him for thirty years?” She leaned in, fury coiling through her like a serpent. “Thirty, Alastor.”

 

He smirked.

 

“That life was foisted upon me, Rosie,” Alastor replied, his tone immaculate, almost dainty in its precision. “I do apologize that I… failed to meet your expectations.”

 

He delivered the line with velveteen courtesy.

 

The strike came swiftly.

 

He accepted it as her hand harshly snapped across his cheek. Rosie was strong - but the blow landed differently now. A touch harder. 

 

His head had turned with the force. The smile remained. If anything, it grew.

 

He slid his gaze back to her with a languid grace that only made her fury blaze hotter, his head returning to its original position. 

 

“Be quiet,” she hissed, the words slicing through the parlor like a whip. “You may have been blessed with some accursed power - but it doesn’t change who you really are. What you really are.”

 

Her voice trembled at the edges, not with weakness, but with a fury tempered by heartbreak. Decades of expectation were crumbling beneath her feet.

 

Alastor tilted his head, regarding her with the gentlest, most condescending politeness.

 

“I don’t deny what I am, Rosie,” he answered, his voice silken. “But I found myself… dissatisfied with my lot in life. I merely sought to uplift myself from my original position. A touch of self-improvement never hurt anyone, surely.”

 

“And how,” she demanded, taking a step closer, “did you succeed at that?”

 

Something terrible flashed across the Sinner’s crimson eyes. 

 

“I’m afraid I can’t disclose that particular secret, madame. My apologies.”

 

Her breath caught, affronted. “Alastor!”

 

His grin widened until it seemed to stretch beyond the boundaries of something mortal. A grotesque parody of delight, refined and courtly yet unmistakably feral.

 

Rosie stepped closer, the hem of her dress whispering over the polished floor of the parlor. Her voice dropped with a simmering menace. She looked at him as though she could still command him.

 

“This tantrum won’t last,” she declared, each word laced with a venom she rarely revealed. “I assure you of that, Alastor. Enjoy it while you can. Revel in your little rebellion.” She leaned in, eyes narrow, voice lowering to a growl. “But mark me well. You’ll end up suffering for this more than you know. I swear it.”

❧

 

Her words continued to ricochet through his mind long after he’d exited Cannibal Town. The night air clung to him as he walked and the weight he carried was small and trembling.

 

Niffty’s arms looped tightly around his neck, her body curled against him. She did not chatter nor hum, maintaining an uncharacteristic silence. Instead, she pressed her face into the crook of his neck, inhaling deeply and drawing in the familiar spice of his scent.

 

He kept one arm supporting her slight frame, the other stroking slow, soothing lines down her back. It was an old gesture and yet it came as effortlessly as breathing. She had run to him the very moment she’d seen him, her lone eye bright with tears she’d tried valiantly to blink away. 

 

And in that brief, trembling embrace, he felt something settle inside him. Something he hadn’t known was missing until it clicked into place.

 

He felt partly whole again.

 

But only partly.

 

Because behind the warmth in his arms, behind the comfort of Niffty’s familiar presence, there remained an empty space. 

 

❧

 

Both Niffty and Husk stood flanking Alastor within the expanse of the Morningstar Castle, the strange trio dwarfed by its vaulted ceilings and polished marble floors. 

 

Niffty was visibly enraptured. Her single eye darted from gilded molding to crystalline chandeliers, the woman drinking in every immaculate surface with open-mouthed wonder. She looked as though she might burst into delighted squeaks at any moment.

 

Husk, meanwhile, appeared about three degrees from bolting. His shoulders were set in a tight hunch, tail lashing once before he forcibly stilled it. This was far from the smoke-choked dens and neon-lit backrooms he was accustomed to. 

 

He’d heard of Lucifer’s domain, of course. Every Overlord had. But hearing of it and standing in it were two very different beasts entirely and the latter made the fur along his spine prickle.

 

Alastor, by contrast, stood tall as though the castle’s magnificence were a stage built expressly for him.

 

“Welcome home,” he announced, his tone warm and oddly triumphant. “This, my dearest companions, is where we shall begin the long and illustrious work of… improving ourselves.”

 

Niffty bounced with a small, delighted gasp.

“Oooh! Improving how, Alastor?”

 

He placed a hand to his chest with theatrical flourish, his grin widening.

 

“Well, my darling Niffty - my ambitions are not modest. I aim not merely to become a powerful Overlord, but the most powerful among them. The crown jewel of Hell’s hierarchy. And while I am confident I could achieve this unaided…” His eyes gleamed, voice dipping into a velvet purr. “My goals extend beyond simple superiority.”

 

His smile sharpened.

 

“My dear husband, after all, has an empire. A network. Loyal little cohorts who serve his every whim. And I intend” - he savored the pause, letting the words unfurl - “to undermine him in every conceivable way.”

 

Husk groaned under his breath. “Christ. I knew this was gonna be trouble.”

 

Alastor only laughed softly, the sound warm on its surface and wicked beneath.

 

“Trouble, my good Husk,” he replied, “is exactly what we’re here to cultivate.”

 

Husk’s arms cross over his chest as though bracing for whatever ridiculous scheme was about to drop.

 

“How do you plan on stickin’ it to Vox, anyway?” 

 

Alastor’s grin brightened.  “By utilizing our respective talents, of course. The Vees possess their own little specialties and I intend for us to mirror them - artfully and with far greater finesse.”

 

Husk stared. 

 

Then blinked.

And then his mouth curled upward.

 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he muttered before the humor overwhelmed him. “We’re your very own Velvette and Valentino.”

 

A beat.

 

“Shit.”

 

A laugh tore out of him.

 

Alastor only looked upon him with an indulgent fondness. 

 

“Indeed, my dear Husk,” the Radio Demon purred. 

 

Husk wheezed through the last of his laughter and wiped at his eyes. “God help us.”

 

“Oh, ‘God’ will do no such thing,” Alastor replied, sweetly. “But I will. To the best of my abilities.”

 

Niffty clapped her hands, eyes sparkling. “Ooh! Does that mean I get to be like Velvette too? She’s so pretty!”

 

“And yet she lacks your charm, my girl.”

 

Niffty lit up at the praise. Husk, meanwhile, finally sobered. His laughter tapered into a low rumble as he eyed Alastor with a weariness that suggested he had just now grasped the scale of what he’d stepped into.

 

“What’s the timetable on this?” he asked, ears flattening in a wary, feline way.

 

But the doe only lifted his shoulders in a languid shrug, the motion elegant.

 

“We’ve eternity, Husk. There’s little point in rushing. We’ve our very own empire to build. And those, I’m afraid, take time.”

 

Husk stared at him for a long moment.

 

Alastor beamed brightly.

 

The feline exhaled slowly at the sight, resigned to the fact that he had just agreed to involve himself not only in a rebellion but in one orchestrated by this particular creature. 

Chapter 37: The Curse of Eve [ Light Guide ]

Guide to Tags, Themes, Characters & Plot Points

Hello!

 

I wanted to share how much I appreciate everyone who has shown interest in this work. Now that it has officially reached 100k words, I’d like to offer a small guide regarding tags, themes, characters, and plot points.

 

This is 100% skippable, but it serves as a neat reference for subtle traces left throughout the story, as well as elements that haven’t been overtly mentioned yet - but will be when the time comes.

 

Before digging into the guide, I wanted to offer some clarification regarding the ending. Vague clarification, of course, so as not to spoil anything.

 

Alastor is a character destined for glory, reputation and prestige beyond the role of a quiet spouse.

His ascension is inevitable. It won’t unfold in the way he wants nor in the way he expects and the path toward it will be brutal. But rise he will.

 

He’s not one to settle for mediocrity, after all.

 

Unfortunately, he is a damned soul, forced toward two divergent paths:

 

Whether he ascends as Vox’s wife or Lucifer’s queen remains unknown.

 

Additionally, I’ll be commissioning artwork for this piece please look forward to it!

 

As for my upload schedule and the potential “end-game” word count?

 

Uh.

 

Lol?

 

Tonal Shift

The recent chapters have been moderate to light in tone. This was intentional, as chapters 14–26 were absolutely merciless. I wanted to give readers a brief reprieve before diving back into darker material. There will be a reversal back to more severe subjects soon. 

Tags

Tags That Will Be Added & Why

• Adam/Alastor - Reflects their physical intimacy.
  
  
• Alastor/Angel Dust - Represents emotional intimacy that will be explored in depth.
  
  
• Bittersweet Ending - Some characters will find contentment; others will not. Everyone survives, but satisfaction varies.
  
  
• Angst - Self-explanatory.
  
  
• Lima Syndrome - Positive feelings developing toward one’s victims.
  
  
• Stockholm Syndrome - Positive feelings developing toward one's captors. 

Themes I’ll Be Exploring

• Asexuality - Alastor’s asexuality will be explored in future chapters.
• Conquest of Power / Gender Commentary - Explores bodily autonomy, independence and choice. These themes appear in many works, but here they are examined through the lens of Alastor’s experiences.

• Bodily Agency - Control over one’s own body and the ability to set boundaries.
  
  
• Misogyny - Expressions of superiority by Alphas over Betas and Omegas, particularly the latter.
  
  
• Social Media - How online platforms can be weaponized to damage reputations.
  
  
• Homosexuality - Pertains specifically to Omega/Omega relationships in this universe.
  
  
• Tokophobia - Alastor’s fear of motherhood.
  
  
• Politics -  Will become more prominent later; an early example involves the alliance between Vox and Rosie. The other Overlords, eventually, will come into play. And eventually be introduced.
  
  
• Gender Roles - Expectations placed on each sex to perform predetermined functions.
  
  

Sexes / Biology

Alphas

• Naturally inclined toward dominance.
  
  
• Aggressive tendencies heightened by Hell’s influence.
  
  
• Considered superior due to The Blessing of Adam.
  
  
• Male Alphas: typical male anatomy.
  
  
• Female Alphas: present as women but possess male genitalia.
  
  

Betas

• Sterile; present as either male or female.
  
  
• Typically even-tempered and stable. 
  
  
• Middling to average nature attributed to The Burden of Cain.

Omegas

• Naturally inclined toward submission.
  
  
• Sweet, quiet and charming dispositions.
  
  
• Souls mirror their human-life counterparts, limiting supernatural potential.
  
  
• Weakness attributed to The Curse of Eve.
  
  
• Female Omegas: typical female anatomy.
  
  
• Male Omegas: present as men but possess female genitalia.
  
  

Heat Cycles

• Lasts one week.
  
  
• Typically four days of bleeding followed by a receptive period in which the body prepares to be bred by potential mates.
  
  
• 'Claiming' - which erodes an Omega's sense of agency when within the presence of their mate - can only be done during this period of time. 

Scents

• Strong, identifiable biological signatures.
  
  
• Alphas and Omegas possess layered, complex scents;
  
  
• Betas tend to be simple, one-note.
  
  
• Most scents cannot be masked, suppressed or hidden.
  
  

Titles / Blessings / Curses

• Curse of Eve - Due to Lilith’s betrayal, Omegas suffer weakness: menstruation, heats and pregnancy pains.
  
  
• Blessing of Adam -  Granted to ensure Adam’s authority over his wife; bestows strength and dominance upon his descendants.
  
  
• Burden of Cain - Afflicts Betas, rendering them average and sterile. They must work far harder to achieve what comes naturally to Alphas.
  
  
• The Second Coming of Lilith - A modern prophecy suggesting Alastor may repeat Lilith’s defiance of the natural order.
  
  
• Siren’s Allure - A curse placed upon Alastor and intensified by Lucifer thirty-one years prior. It causes souls to gravitate toward and fixate on him.
  
  

Plot Details 

• Microchip - A semi-functional device embedded beneath Alastor’s skin. He is entirely unaware of its presence.
  
  
• Wedding - Details remain intentionally vague. Alastor was hypnotized throughout the ceremony and consummation. This will receive its own dedicated chapter.
  
  
• Marriage - Thirty years is a long time. The events of the marriage will unfold gradually through fragmented memories and recollections.
  
  
• Angel Dust’s Feelings - As implied in his POV chapter, his feelings for Alastor will be explored. Whether they are mutual remains uncertain.
  
  
• Rosie & Vox’s Connection - A significant detail that will matter greatly later.
  
  
• Adam’s Boon - Prevents Vox’s claim mark from dulling Alastor’s mental clarity. Approximately nineteen years remain before it weakens.
  
  
• Alastor’s Marital Ring - His continued attachment to it is unexplained - for now.
  
  
• Adam & Lucifer’s Arrangement - A major unknown that will be clarified in the future.
  
  
• Lilith & Charlie’s Departure - This will also be explored.
  
  

Characters

Alastor

A figure who stirs fixation, longing, physical attraction and adoration in nearly everyone. His soul resonates with Omegas and Betas despite Lucifer’s claims that only Alphas are vulnerable to his presence. He is claimed by Vox, though the mark is weakened by Adam’s boon. He is widely referred to as “The Second Coming of Lilith.”

Niffty

One of Alastor’s closest companions; fiercely loyal and possessive. Exhibits violent tendencies and obsessive cleanliness.

Husk

After a chance encounter, he becomes unwillingly entangled in Alastor’s rebellion. A gambler who oversees a small territory in Pentagram City.

Vox

Alastor’s husband. Has grown increasingly obsessive and arrogant over the years. Intends to reclaim his “wife” by any means necessary.

Valentino

Angel Dust’s owner and lover. Views Alastor as an object of possession - something to reclaim.

Velvette

The only Beta among the Vees. Sees Alastor as a pet to dress, parade and dote upon. Holds massive influence through social media.

Angel Dust

Alastor’s steadfast companion for thirty years. Has developed feelings for him over time. Belongs to and has been claimed by Valentino.

Lucifer

Ruler of Hell. Fascinated by Alastor’s soul and temperament; sees echoes of Lilith within him. His true intentions remain obscured.

Rosie

Alastor’s “mother” in Hell and an Overlord ruling Cannibal Town. She adores him and firmly believes she knows what is best for him - even when it requires forcing the issue.

Shok.wav

The “child” of Vox and Alastor. Its programming identifies both as parents - formally labeling them “Daddy” and “Mommy.”

Baxter

???

Chapter 38: 38

Do you love me?

I might need you to prove it

Do you love me?

If I tell you to do it

Would you trust me?

If I tell you to do it

Would you trust me?

I bet you couldn't tell me

Husk and Niffty served as his reprieve. 

 

They steadied him in a way few ever had, granting him a rare flicker of peace. Their presence was a small, miraculous glow in the suffocating dark that had been his life.

 

 It still astonished him that he remained sane - that his mind hadn’t splintered beneath the strain of being one of the most hunted souls in Pentagram City. He carried the awareness like a weight at his spine - if he misstepped, his fall would be utterly catastrophic. 

 

His name continued to circulate through the city’s channels, though the initial frenzy had cooled to a simmer. Not that he’d allow himself to fade; obscurity was never an option. He wanted the populace to keep him nestled firmly in the forefront of their thoughts. 

 

And so, in tandem with Husk’s operations, he began to assess the territories bordering the feline’s domain. They belonged to middling Overlords - creatures with just enough power to cling to relevance; but not nearly enough to withstand his might. He had moved carefully in the beginning, but the confidence he’d gained from standing toe-to-toe with Vox lent him a steady assurance.

 

His days were divided neatly between strategy and peculiar domesticity. Niffty’s boundless enthusiasm filled the castle with a bubbly clamor, while Husk’s accompanying low grumbles added a grounding counterpoint. 

 

Lucifer found the entire dynamic charming, delighting openly in the added life they brought into his gilded domain. 

 

Adam, on the other hand, barely tolerated Niffty and rumbled at Husk for reasons even he couldn’t articulate.

 

“The fuck did you pick him for?”

 

The interruption drew Alastor from his midday tea. He lowered his cup and blinked patiently at the Fallen Angel standing before him, arms crossed  and that expressful mask twisted to betray his displeasure. 

 

“Whatever do you mean, Adam?”

 

“He’s just some short stack fuck. And a Beta, at that.” Adam jabbed a thumb in the vague direction of the castle corridor, where Husk had presumably last been seen. “Were you that desperate?”

 

Alastor inhaled slowly before releasing a sigh - a subtle display of open irritation. Adam’s territorial streak had grown more pronounced since their arrangement had been set in motion. He enjoyed Alastor’s attention and his temper flared at the notion of anyone else being granted even a measure of significance.

 

“My dear Adam,” Alastor murmured, tone edged in gentle mockery, “not every partnership need appeal to your… baser tastes.”

 

He took another sip of tea, his placid smile unwavering while Adam bristled. 

 

“So that’s your taste now, huh?” Adam scoffed. “You into some furry fuck?”

 

Alastor lifted his gaze slowly, lashes lowering in amusement. The corners of his permanent smile twitched upward, threatening to blossom into something wicked.

 

“Aren’t I,” he purred, “some - how do you say - ‘furry fuck’?”

 

Adam froze mid-grumble.

 

“I - uh - well - no, that’s - …”

 

“You wound me, Adam,” Alastor went on with mock injury. “I’d hoped that my fur wouldn’t be such an offense to your delicate sensibilities.”

 

“I didn’t - that’s not -  I meant him!” Adam sputtered, gesturing vaguely to everywhere Husk might be. “You know! Short. Scruffy. Sad lookin’. Smells like whiskey and failure -”

 

“Mm. And yet you seem quite bothered by him.” The doe’s eyes gleamed. “Territorial, are we? How very… Alpha of you.”

 

Adam straightened. “I’m not territorial, babe. I’m just… just lookin’ out for your standards.”

 

“Of course,” Alastor said, leaning back in his chair, one leg crossing languidly over the other. “Well, your concerns have been duly noted.”

 

“I - “

 

“Have a lovely day, my dear.”

 

An easy dismissal. The abrupt closure of a conversation.

 

Adam opened his mouth, closed it, scowled and stomped off - grumbling all the while. 

 

 

 

❧

 

Niffty did not fancy the imps touching him. The moment Alastor began to slip free of his clothing - the bath ready, hot and fragrant - for their convenience she reacted as though witnessing a crime.

 

“No - no - no - Alastor!” she shrieked.

 

She spun on the servants with a feral intensity wholly disproportionate to her diminutive size. The imps froze, stiff as statues beneath that dilated, gleaming eye. For an instant, Alastor was rather certain she was mentally weighing which method of disembowelment would best fit the offense.

 

He dismissed them with a gentle gesture. 

 

Blessedly, they did not protest; instead taking leave with haste. Niffty watched them go with a suspicious huff before turning back to the neatly assembled array of soaps, brushes, balms and soft cloths. She prowled along the counter, inspecting each item. Every so often she’d make a tiny sound as she rearranged something to her satisfaction.

 

Only when the entire assortment met whatever invisible standard she kept did she whip around and nod furiously at Alastor. He rewarded her diligence with a faint, indulgent smile.

 

He was still perfectly capable of tending to his own grooming. But she insisted with fierce chirps - and so he yielded to her enthusiasm.

 

Moments later, the pair were nestled together in the bath, steam curling around them. Alastor had coaxed her into joining him and she’d agreed with the delighted squeal. He scrubbed her short mane with deft, gentle claws; watching her small form rock happily with each stroke. 

 

She hummed and leaned into his touch with unguarded affection.

 

She was happy.

 

The simplicity of it struck him and caused him to still. 

 

It occurred to him, with an ache that felt frighteningly close to sorrow, that they had not shared a moment like this - an easy, mutual grooming  - in years. Years had been stolen… wasted.

 

Niffty physically paused when he did. Her single eye widened, curiosity and a faint worry sharpening its glow. He smoothed his expression with practiced ease, tilting his head in an affectionate tease, offering her a warm smile that eased the tension from her shoulders.

 

She beamed right back at him, her little hands finding his wrist in a touch so gentle it almost hurt.

 

Their eyes met and it felt as though something long lost had been restored.

 

❧

 

“Stop - stop fuckin’ with my ears!”

 

“Oh, but Husky-Wusky, they’re so soft.”

 

Alastor’s laughter rolled out of him. Husk bristled instantly, every hair along his shoulders rising as though electrified. The doe had drifted into his space without warning and the feline had practically jumped out of his skin, tail lashing in offense and embarrassment.

 

A flush crept up through Husk’s fur, impossible to hide as he jerked away from Alastor’s claws. 

 

“There’s no need to be shy,” the deer teased, taking another slow step forward.

 

“Get back, ya crazy - goddamned - bi - !”

 

Alastor gasped sharply, pressing delicate fingers to his chest with theatrical scandal.

 

“Husky. Such language,” he tutted, eyes gleaming. “Highly inappropriate. Now… come here.”

 

Husk refused to look at him, eyes fixed anywhere except the Sinner smiling at him with predatory fondness.

 

Alastor studied him with a growing curiosity. The Beta was stubborn and his responses to the slightest provocation were endlessly entertaining. Betas, by Hell’s  hierarchy, were rarely offered proximity to Omegas. And thus his guarded reaction was to be expected. 

 

Alastor had long suspected that Lucifer had neglected to mention a few very specific… quirks… of the empowerment he had bestowed. And Niffty’s behavior - her fierce attachment and instinctive protectiveness - had seeded a small suspicion he could no longer ignore.

 

Especially when taking into consideration the moment she turned against Adam all those years ago. 

 

“Alastor’s mine,” she had snarled, voice trembling but fierce. “No touch. Ever!”

 

Her behavior brought to mind the curious reactions that his presence stirred in the majority. 

 

Husk, therefore, made for a marvelous test subject.

 

Alastor’s smile sharpened but it was lined with unmistakable command. His voice dropped, presented to the feline as a low croon edged with authority.

 

“Husk,” he murmured. “I said… come here.”

 

He extended a hand, fingers curling in a firm, deliberate beckoning.

 

Husk stared at him. Really stared. His pupils blew wide. 

 

His breath hitched.

 

He blinked.

 

And then, as though dragged forward by an invisible leash, he stepped closer - each movement tight. His handsome muzzle lowered, settling with stiff reluctance against Alastor’s waiting palm.

 

He obeyed.

 

Alastor’s eyes glinted with triumph and dawning understanding.

 

“That’s my good boy,” he purred, stroking along Husk’s jaw with decadent slowness.

 

Husk’s ears flattened hard against his skull, mortification and something darker shuddering through him.

 

❧

 

It seemed Alastor would be required to spend the remainder of the night serving as a sentient body pillow. The King had grown positively enamored with his legs. His fur. The gradient where skin gave way to pelt. His tail. Even the constellation of speckles across his thighs that made him resemble some manner of infernal fawn.

 

And so Lucifer had made himself comfortable. 

 

His head resting squarely in Alastor’s lap, as though this were the most natural configuration. The doe reclined against the ostentatious headboard, one hand drifted through Lucifer’s pale mane. His claws teased lightly at the man’s scalp, combing through those blonde strands in slow, deliberate strokes.

 

Lucifer was, in truth, a surprisingly small figure. Deceptively slight. His body possessed an almost porcelain delicacy. He bore a strong resemblance to a doll in that way. 

 

His eyes remained closed, his features relaxed into an expression of blissful repose. He was awake but the King gave no outward sign of it save for the faintest tug of his mouth whenever Alastor’s claws hit a particularly pleasant spot.

 

Alastor inhaled deeply.

 

The man smelled of crisp, cold apples. A clean sweetness sharpened by something metallic beneath. How fitting, given the story that preceded him. Though Alastor often wondered which part of the tale was true. Had Lilith been tempted by that scent, or had it quite literally been a fruit? 

 

Hell’s folklore was so dreadfully inconsistent.

 

Lucifer shifted, rolling slightly onto his side. He draped an arm around Alastor’s waist with a lazy possessiveness, nuzzling faintly against fur. A soft inhale betrayed him. He was scenting him again. Savoring him.

 

The task was made easier by his present state of dress. 

 

Which amounted to nothing. 

 

The King required his presence at least once a day. More, when the mood took him. A meal shared. A conversation traded. Or these quiet stretches of stolen domesticity, where he treated Alastor as a prized companion. 

 

Something to curl around like a favored pillow.

 

Alastor said nothing. He only continued to stroke Lucifer’s hair, his expression unreadable - save for that ever-present smile -  stretched just a degree too tight to be natural.

 

“Lucifer,” he murmured, the words slipping out on a soft exhale.

 

A subtle twitch answered him -  a faint shift of the King’s brow. 

 

“I really ought to retire,” Alastor continued, tone dipped in polite apology. “Surely I’ve kept you entertained long enough, Sire?”

 

Lucifer angled his head, one crimson eye sliding open to regard him through half-lidded indolence. It was a slow, lazy movement.

 

“Am I so unpleasant, pet?”

 

Alastor’s smile tightened by a hair’s breadth. “I’d prefer not to occupy a place to which I do not… strictly belong. You may own my soul, Your Majesty - but I am not your wife. Nor your lover.”

 

A soft hum slipped from Lucifer, something warm and mocking at once. “How loyal you sound. Do you fear Vox’s judgement, pet? Afraid he’ll sniff out that you’ve been warming another man’s bed?”

 

The arm around his waist tightened - barely, but enough to still him. 

 

Enough to remind him.

 

Beneath Lucifer’s doll-like beauty lay a strength that made Alastor’s skin crawl. The King’s body was slim - but the pressure around his waist was iron, unyielding as a vice. It promised ruin with casual ease.
 

This was the creature who broke Adam.

A Sinner like him would not fare even a heartbeat.

 

Alastor kept his breath steady, though something in his chest thrummed with unease.

 

“I don’t fear my husband,” Alastor said, each word measured with meticulous care. “Nor his judgment.”

 

A low, delighted sound unfurled from Lucifer’s throat.

 

“What a delicious lie,” he purred. “Lie to me again, pet. It’s music to my ears.”

 

Alastor went rigid. 

 

“I do not - ”

 

But he stopped.

 

Because the devil wanted him to finish that sentence. Wanted him to dig himself deeper. 

 

The King was laying the trap openly - almost lazily - as if to say:

Here, little pet. Step inside. Struggle for my amusement.

 

Alastor forced his gaze away, lifting a hand to smooth the hair behind one ear. A small, elegant gesture. A distraction from the way his pulse thrummed.

 

He would not grant Lucifer the satisfaction.

 

“I would prefer,” he said softly, smoothing the edge of his voice into something polite, “that we refrain from discussing Vox this evening.”

 

Lucifer’s eyes gleamed. A faint smile curved his lips. 

 

“My little fugitive bride,” Lucifer crooned. “So eager to avoid spoiling a perfect day.”

 

“I’m not your bride,” Alastor replied, the words clipped.

 

“Is that so?” Lucifer mused.. “A shame, that. You’d make the most lovely queen.”

 

Alastor scoffed - a soft, disdainful note. 

 

Lucifer’s smile only widened.

 

“Your hand, pet.”

 

The devil didn’t reach out. Didn’t shift. Didn’t so much as tilt his head.
 

He simply issued the command.

 

With visible reluctance, Alastor offered his right hand. 

 

Lucifer’s expression flattened.

 

“Don’t fuck with me,” he said, almost lazily. “The other one, Alastor.”

 

Something in Alastor’s jaw ticked.

 

 But he obeyed, offering his left hand - the hand bearing the ring that bound him, symbolically and legally, to Vox.

 

Lucifer took it with surprising gentleness. His fingers traced the twin gemstones of red and blue set beside one another. 

 

“I can’t imagine,” Lucifer murmured, his thumb brushing the metal with a contemptuous tenderness, “why you’d keep something so gaudy. Red and blue. How hilariously obvious. Vox never did understand subtlety, did he?”

 

Alastor’s smile tightened. 

 

Lucifer’s voice softened into something far more dangerous.

 

“I could replace it, you know,” he whispered. “With something finer. Something befitting a soul I own. Something that suits your finger far better than this charming little shackle.”

 

His crimson eyes flicked up, studying Alastor’s expression.

The deer stilled, breath caught somewhere between his lungs and his throat - his lips trembling as it maintains that grin. 

 

His refusal of the devil’s ‘generous’ offer is a quiet one. Unspoken but easily communicated as he meets his  gaze. 

 

Lucifer’s thumb presses lightly against the inside of his wrist. 

 

“How quaint,” the King drawled, his voice low. “Still wearing his ring after breaking his heart so spectacularly. Tell me, pet. Are you sentimental… or simply reluctant to admit you’re still bound?”

 

He smiled cruelly. 

 

“Enlighten me.”

 

Chapter 39: 39

Notes:

I'd like to emphasize the 'Dead Dove' tag here when it comes to psychological aspects of Alastor's torment. As this chapter is deeply unpleasant in regards to that for a multitude of reasons. We are also one chapter shy of another - much smaller in scale - timeskip once we hit Chapter 40! Edit; I lied, time-skip delayed. v- v

When I contemplated how I'd characterize Lucifer in this piece, I wanted to make him represent aspects of how some 'devil' or 'satan' characters are depicted in fictional media. But not in a 'joke-y' nature. But more so the darker showcases. While searching for inspiration for Dark!Lucifer's character, I settled on the depiction of Papa Legba from AHS: Coven. Their version of hell especially inspired me. There is also a very light dab of Black Philip from The Witch ( 2015 Film )

In addition this offers a fair amount of insight toward the underlying cruelty of Vox's actions and the flashbacks are neatly sandwiched in-between the limousine scene and the wedding. One thing I wanted to avoid with pre-timeskip Vox was having him utilize physical violence to exert control over while also explaining as to why Alastor was strangely docile following the wedding. This should offer a decent context behind both the ring and his behavior in post-wedding scenes.

He remembered the moment Vox slipped the preparatory proposal ring onto his finger. 

 

It was after the limousine. 

 

After he had been returned to his tiny, quiet home in Cannibal Town. 

 

He had been left alone.

 

It was an unspoken punishment. A calculated withdrawal meant to wear him thin and make him pliant and grateful for even a scrap of company. And Vox ensured the punishment sank deeper by removing everything that offered Alastor comfort: the cigarettes, the books, the vintage radio cassettes - even the crossword puzzles he enjoyed in moments of rare stillness.

 

There was nothing.
 

Absolutely nothing.

 

So he slept.

 

Slipping into long, dreamless stretches of unconsciousness became the only reprieve - the only place not curated by Vox’s will. Oblivion was its own sanctuary. He curled tightly beneath the blankets, letting exhaustion drag him down again and again.

 

He ate only when hunger gnawed sharply enough to force him up. He drank when the dryness on his tongue grew unbearable. Otherwise, he slept.

 

Hours blurred into days, days into a stretched, indistinct haze. The room never changed. His state never changed. His thoughts slowed.

 

He was asleep again when he felt the mattress dip.

 

A weight gingerly pressed into the edge of the bed. The faintest touch brushed his shoulder.

 

“Niffty?” he croaked.

 

He blinked himself into consciousness.

 

No.

Not Niffty.

 

Vox.

 

It was always Vox.

 

He didn’t sigh nor shrink away. He simply propped himself up on trembling elbows, blinking blearily through the fog of sleep. His throat was raw, his stomach empty and his limbs heavy. There was a terrible ache beneath his eyes and his mane hung tangled and dull.

 

Vox’s projected eyes softened at the sight. That alone made Alastor’s ears flatten tight against his skull. The show of tenderness made something sour coil in his stomach.

 

“Hey, sweetheart,” Vox whispered, voice gentle. “You alright?”

 

A clawed hand slid down his back through the rumpled sheets. They needed laundering, but Vox didn’t seem to care.

 

“I’m alright,” Alastor replied, voice scratchy. 

 

Vox drew him close, pulling him into a warm embrace that made Alastor stiffen.

 

“Are you feeling better?”

 

Alastor forced a nod.

 

“Let’s get you cleaned up and fed. Alright?”

 

He obeyed. 

 

He let Vox guide him. His legs wobbled as he rose; hunger had drained him. He let the Alpha wash him, towel him dry, dress him and spoon warm broth to his lips. He endured the gentle touches and constant proximity. Afraid that if he protested, Vox would simply leave him here again until the wedding day. 

 

Alone with nothing but his thoughts.

 

The broth came from Rosie’s kitchen, rich with spices and the distinct savor of Sinner flesh. Vox sat beside him, close enough that their knees brushed, watching every swallow.

 

“I’ve got something for you,” Vox murmured.

 

Alastor didn’t respond until he’d worked down another mouthful. Then the object was placed before him.

 

A ring.

 

A blue gemstone.

A splash of Vox’s color meant to overwrite his own.

 

His stomach twisted so violently that he nearly choked.

 

“I thought you’d be more agreeable to it now,” Vox said, hopeful.

 

Alastor slapped a hand over his mouth a fraction of a second before he lurched sideways and vomited onto the floor.

 

Vox froze while Alastor’s body convulsed, purging broth and bile. 

❧

Alastor snapped awake with a violent inhale.

 

His body reacted before his mind could catch up - ears flat and chest rising and falling in quick, shallow bursts. His gaze swept the room in frantic, jerking motions. 

 

Lucifer’s chambers.

 

He was on his back.

 

And Lucifer was above him. The devil was leaning over him, hands planted on either side of his head as he effectively caged him with casual authority. His silhouette was relaxed.

 

But his eyes were anything but.

 

“What - ” Alastor’s breath fractured, a tremor raking down his spine. “What was that? Why was I - ”

 

His throat constricted.

He could still feel it - the wrenching of his stomach, the sour burn of bile and the helplessness. The memory had not been remembered. 

 

It had been relived.

 

His body betrayed him with a choked, involuntary sound as his back arched slightly off the mattress.

 

Lucifer watched every flinch with an almost reverent fascination.

 

“How very interesting,” he purred, delighted. 

 

Alastor’s eyes were wet. The shame of it only made his breathing harsher.

 

“How - why was I back there - ” he stammered, voice cracking around the panic.

 

“Sssh,” Lucifer hushed. “That was not what I was seeking. I simply wished to know the full extent of your obsession with that disgusting little trinket.” His gaze flickered downward, amused. “But you refused me, pet.”

 

Alastor’s throat bobbed with a swallow. “Lucifer - ”

 

“So I did a bit of digging,” the devil continued breezily. “True - you experienced the memory in full.”

 

He leaned closer, lips brushing Alastor’s ear that twitched.

 

“But you survived it once. You’ll survive it again.”

 

Alastor tried to rise but Lucifer’s hands shot forward with lightning speed, gripping his wrists and pinning them effortlessly to the mattress.

 

The doe froze beneath him, trembling. 

 

His face twisted into a strained, brittle smile. 

 

“You can’t - ” Alastor gasped.

 

“Ah,” Lucifer interrupted, smoothly, “but I can, Alastor.”

 

His tone was soft. Almost tender. And all the more terrifying for it.

 

Alastor released a ragged breath, his trembling worsening. The memory itself had not even been the worst one locked in his mind. But Lucifer had flayed it open as though dragging him bodily back into the past.

 

And Lucifer drank in the spectacle.

 

His expression radiated a sadist’s pleasure.

 

“Such a lovely reaction,” he mused. “Let’s take another look inside that delightful soul of yours. It does belong to me, after all.”

 

“I’ll talk,” Alastor blurted, panic choking him. “I’ll tell you - ”

Lucifer laughed.

A low, musical sound.

 

“Oh, no. It’s far too late for that, little pet.”

 

“Lucifer - please - I can’t - ”

 

The devil’s smile sharpened, a crescent of malicious joy.

 

“But you will,” he whispered.

 

Lucifer’s eyes flashed.

And the world tore open again.

 

❧

He threw it away.

 

The ring.

 

Again and again.

 

Sometimes into the trash.

Sometimes into the deepest drawer.

 

And every time he rid himself of it…

 

It returned.

 

Placed neatly on his bedside table.

Balanced atop his folded clothes.

 

Waiting on the kitchen counter like a loyal dog.

 

And every time it reappeared something else vanished.

 

Never anything grand.

Never anything obvious enough to immediately spark outrage.

 

Just little things.

Little comforts.

Little pieces of a life he had tried to carve out for himself.

 

His home had once held warmth. A fragile, hard-won warmth built from scraps of affection and routine. He had filled it with small tokens that made the days bearable, but nothing compared to what Niffty had given him.

 

Her gifts were precious in a way he could not properly articulate. Childlike in their sincerity. Each one a tiny offering of love from one of the rare souls he cared for without condition.

 

A crown fashioned from polished beetle carapaces.

Or a crude drawing of the two of them, smiling with uneven lines and mismatched colors.

 

He cherished them because she made them for him.

 

And then - one morning - one of them was gone.

 

Then another.

 

At first he thought he’d somehow misplaced them. That was the lie he fed himself, at least. But the pattern soon sharpened into something unmistakable. 

 

Something malicious.

 

Every time he disposed of the ring - 

 

Every time he refused the symbol of ownership forced upon him - 

 

- something of Niffty vanished in its place.

 

If he tried to hide the gifts, they disappeared anyway.

If he clutched them while he slept, he woke with empty hands.

 

And the house began to press in around him with each passing moment. A slow, tightening strangulation. Every missing trinket siphoned away a little more color - a little more comfort and a little more of himself.

 

He had never felt the place was truly his.
 

But now he saw what it was becoming.

 

A hollow, echoing hell crafted just for him.

 

Then the furniture began to vanish.

 

Anything touched by her influence.

 

Anything she had rearranged.

Anything she had dusted, polished or fussed over with her perpetual cheer.

 

One item at a time.

 

A throw pillow.

A vase she’d insisted needed “just a splash of flowers.”

A stool she had perched on while cleaning his curtains.

A blanket she’d knit in jittery, crooked rows.

 

Her scent faded room by room.

Her presence erased with surgical precision.

 

It was psychological warfare.

 

A slow erosion of the last soft corners of his world.

 

Until there was nothing left.

 

Until the home was stripped bare.

 

Until the only thing that remained was the ring.

 

Waiting.

 

As though it had never been thrown away at all.

 

❧

His reemergence tore free of his throat as a guttural, wrenching scream.

 

For Lucifer, the intrusion had lasted only a moment.

 

But for Alastor…

 

It had been weeks.

 

Weeks trapped inside the memory. Weeks spent in that silent, suffocating house as it was stripped bare around him. Weeks feeling the ring return to him like a curse. 

 

Lucifer withdrew from Alastor with languid satisfaction. Not a hair of his pale mane was disturbed; not a hint of exertion marred his perfect features.

 

“Extroridinary,” he breathed, sounding delighted. “How very clever, Vox. You’re a man after my own heart.”

 

He spoke as though reviewing fine art.

As though the psychological dismantling of a trapped Omega were a form of poetry.

 

His eyes, bright with malicious curiosity, drifted back to the bed - settling on Alastor’s trembling form.

 

The deer lay curled tightly on his side, breath ragged and uneven.

 

Lucifer watched him tremble.

 

Cherishing it.

 

“You may leave, pet,” he said, his tone warm with amusement. “You’ve satisfied me more than enough tonight. But do take care to not deny me again.”

❧

It was Husk who escorted him back to his room.

 

He arrived at Lucifer’s chamber door looking stiff and uncertain, no doubt summoned to retrieve the trembling Sinner. The moment his eyes fell upon Alastor and the way his arms locked around his own ribs, Husk’s habitual scowl softened into something close to alarm.

 

He didn’t comment. Didn’t question.

 

It wasn’t his place to.

Just dipped his head once toward Lucifer, who watched the pair with a cold, clinical detachment. 

 

A furred paw settled between Alastor’s shoulder blades, guiding him gently but firmly down the endless corridor. Husk kept close, matching his pace to the deer’s faltering steps. Every now and then he shot him a sidelong look. 

 

When they reached his room, Niffty was already there.

 

She took one look at Alastor and her single eye immediately glossed with worry. She hurried forward, her delicate hands fluttering around him.

 

Husk lingered in the doorway, reluctant to leave. His tail flicked low, betraying a frustration he wouldn’t voice - frustration at not knowing what had been done or how to fix it. But after a beat, he stepped back.

 

“Shout if you need anything,” he muttered. 

 

Alastor only gave a numb nod.

Husk’s ears pinned back and then he slipped away.

 

Niffty coaxed him out of his clothes - undoing buttons, smoothing back his mane and folding garments aside with reverence. She didn’t ask what happened. She didn’t need to. Her instincts were sharp; her devotion sharper still.

 

She tucked him beneath the blankets as though tending to a feverish child, brushing stray strands of red hair from his face. When she finally crawled close and pressed her small forehead against his own, her voice was barely a whisper.

 

“I love you, Alastor.”

 

The words broke through the quiet. 

 

Alastor’s eyes shut. 

 

His breath trembled.

For a moment, he couldn’t speak at all.

 

And then, softly.

 

“I love you too, Niffty.”

 

She held him tighter.

Chapter 40: 40

Baxter’s fingertips pressed into the corners of his temples as he squinted down at the fluctuating readings on his monitor. His glasses reflected a mess of fractured coordinates and the stubborn blinking of an error icon that had plagued him for days.

 

The microchip implanted in Vox’s wife was producing signals that made no goddamned sense. It would ping a location… and then deliver that ping hours late. Every update was out of sync with real time, as though the data had been dragged through molasses before finally arriving in his system. 

 

By the time they sent scouts to the designated spot, the deer was long gone.

 

It was like trying to track a ghost.

 

Vox, understandably, was losing his mind.

 

He’d always had a cruel edge but lately that cruelty had become something else. More volatile. More intense. And Baxter observed this from a professional and very safe distance.

 

For thirty years Vox’s love for his wife had been common knowledge; a staple of Hell’s gossip cycles. They were inseparable - Alastor in immaculate shades of red, Vox in sleek, modern blues and blacks. 

 

They’d move through a room like a matched set and Vox’s gaze inevitably found the Omega’s face no matter the crowd. Their intimacy had always been on display in tiny gestures; an arm looped through another, the subtle lean of shoulders brushing or even the way Vox’s screen brightened when Alastor laughed.

 

They’d been the couple. 

 

And now? Now Vox paced like a man deprived of oxygen, tearing through his empire brick by brick hunting for the one person who had abandoned him. Baxter was left to assemble meaning from scrambled coordinates while praying his Overlord didn’t turn that sharpness on him.

 

“There has to be interference,” he muttered under his breath, adjusting a setting and watching the readings flicker. “Something’s distorting the feed.”

 

He wasn’t wrong. 

 

The chip still mapped Alastor’s general movements whenever he brushed near Pentagram City. But sometimes he dropped off the face of Hell entirely.

 

Baxter was still muttering equations under his breath, preparing a neat presentation with a projector and cleanly labeled graphs, when a low voice sliced through his thoughts:

 

“Well. What do you have for me?”

 

He glanced up.

 

Vox had entered without ceremony, the glow of his screen cold and narrowed. His office was cavernous - polished metal, too-bright lights and the enormous shark-filled aquarium that dominated the far wall. 

 

Baxter kept his gaze carefully trained away from it. Too many enemies of the Vees had ended up as chum.

 

Vox’s stride was long and his body tense in a way that suggested he’d barely slept. Baxter straightened immediately, lifting his laptop. 

 

“Well, sir,” he began carefully. “We’ve compiled a… tentative reconstruction of your wife’s activity following his - ah - departure.”

 

He clicked the remote.
 

The projector hummed to life.

 

“And while the results are… irregular, they do offer us a working pattern.”

 

Vox stepped closer. He stood uncomfortably near, looming over Baxter’s shoulder, eyes fixed on the map as though he could will it into giving more than it had.

 

Baxter swallowed.

 

The room felt too small.

 

“Were all of these confirmed? Any sightings or traces?”

 

Vox’s voice was low and the projector’s flickering light cast harsh shapes across his screen-face. Baxter kept his back straight, hands folded primly before him. 

 

“Yes, my lord,” he answered. “It appears Alastor has begun cultivating a… reputation. Minor, but growing. We received unsolicited information from a territory belonging to a smaller Overlord.”

 

Vox’s head angled a fraction. “Well?”

 

“A gambling den,” Baxter continued, tapping a key to bring up grainy footage. “Alastor crossed the threshold of the establishment multiple times. His presence was noted.”

 

“Whose territory?” Vox demanded.

 

“A ‘Husk,’ sir.”

 

The name seemed to leave a sour taste in the Overlord’s projected mouth. Vox shifted his weight, the glow of his screen dimming as a photo of the feline Overlord appeared beside the map.

 

“And?” Vox asked, voice cooling. “This… Husk. What was the extent of his involvement?”

 

Baxter hesitated.

 

“It appears he personally interacted with your wife,” he said, carefully. “But nothing beyond that.”

 

Vox’s whole body stilled. He stared at the projected image of Husk as though he meant to peel the man’s soul out through the screen.

 

“How?” Vox asked.

 

A single word.

Baxter blinked. “Sir?”

 

“How,” Vox repeated, “did he interact with my wife?”

 

The air dropped several degrees.

 

There was a warning there.

 

Baxter swallowed.

 

Hard.

 

“According to the reports,” he began, voice thin but steady, “Husk merely served him a drink and… facilitated a few games of chance. There was no physical altercation. No meaningful proximity outside what is expected in such an establishment.”

 

Vox did not respond.

 

Not immediately.

 

He tilted his head, staring down the feline’s grainy photograph with an unreadable expression. His screen pulsed once. 

 

“We also have some footage,” Baxter said, tone stiffening. “Scrapped together.”

 

A flick of his wrist brought the clips to life on the projector. The room dimmed further, shadows stretching along the walls.

 

The footage was grainy, but unmistakably him.

 

Alastor lounged at a gambling table with a languid elegance - as though he hadn’t a care in Hell. One leg crossed over the other, cards held loosely between clawed fingers, his smile fixed in that permanent crescent. 

 

With a theatrical little flourish, he summoned a cigarette between his fingers.

 

“Would one of you be a dear?” he asked, his voice smooth.

 

Despite the fact that he could have lit it himself with a snap, the gathered patrons scrambled to serve him. Hands tripped over hands in the desperate attempt to be the one singled out by that shining red darling.

 

A rabbit-based Sinner managed it. He leaned forward with a shaking hand, lighting the cigarette, his pupils blown wide with anticipation and adoration.

 

Alastor rewarded him with a pleased, utterly devastating smile.

 

The rabbit’s cotton tail wagged in uncontrollable delight.

 

Vox’s claws curled into tight fists. His screen flickered once. 

 

Baxter felt it. The drop in temperature.

The static billowing beneath Vox’s skin.

 

The Overlord spoke without looking away from the footage.

 

“Play it again.”

 

His tone was perfectly calm.

 

Which made it infinitely worse.

 

There were only a select few who were permitted to touch Alastor.

 

Valentino. Velvette. Vox. Angel Dust. Rosie. 

 

That was it. 

 

That was the list.

 

That had always been the list.

 

Anyone else laying hands on Vox’s wife - especially in some smoke-choked, low-rent den of degeneracy - were… treading on dangerous territory. 

Vox’s screen dimmed to a low, dangerous glow as he stared at the frozen frame of that rabbit Sinner leaning too close and basking too openly in Alastor’s attention.

 

“Have any of those idiots been identified?” Vox asked.

 

“A few, sir,” Baxter replied, throat tight.

 

“I want their asses in seats,” Vox murmured, each word clipped. “Every single one of them. Anyone who touched him, breathed on him or got within arm’s reach - drag them in. I want to know exactly what the fuck went on in that hole.”

 

He paused, jaw tightening.

 

“That fucker. What was his name again?” Vox asked. “Husk?”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

Vox fell silent - weighing the possibilities with the cold, meticulous precision. 

 

 When he finally spoke, his tone shifted. 

 

“Inform him,” Vox said, lightly, “that I’d like a meeting.”

 

A static smile cut across his screen. Artificial. Too wide.

 

“An advantageous one. A friendly one. Perhaps we can even strike a deal.”

 

❧

 

Velvette leaned over the small cauldron perched on her vanity table, its iron belly bubbling with a slow, viscous simmer. 

 

The mixture inside had finally begun to settle into the precise shade she’d been chasing for weeks - a dull crimson. She inhaled delicately, lashes lowering as she assessed the scent, texture and magic humming through the brew. Perfect. Or close enough.

 

“Angel, c’mere.”

 

She didn’t bother looking up as she crooked a finger. The tall, long-limbed Omega shuffled over, shoulders stiff, expression pinched with suspicion. He kept glancing at the cauldron. 

 

“Yeah, Velvette?” he asked, nervous. 

 

Velvette let out a low, delighted titter. She always forgot how skittish Angel could be when it came to her witchy projects.

 

“Oh, relax, baby. I’m not about to stick a funnel down your throat,” she said, waving him off. “It’s just a potion. Nothing overwhelmingly mind-altering. Just a mild little sedative that’ll knock someone flat on their ass.”

 

Angel blinked down at the brew and made a dubious noise.

 

“Uh-huh. Sure. Real comforting.”

 

Velvette’s smile sharpened. That was the appropriate reaction. Even by Overlord standards, the stuff looked potent.

 

“Hand me an empty vial.”

 

Angel obeyed, plucking one from the cluttered shelving. He uncorked it with a faint pop and placed it carefully in Velvette’s waiting palm. She accepted it, sliding a tiny silver funnel into the mouth of the glass and pouring the mixture in a slow, controlled stream. 

 

“You know Overlords have stronger immune systems, right?” she said conversationally as she worked.

 

“Yeah, Vel. ‘Course I do.”

 

“Mmhmm. Well, that means everything we ingest has to be double or triple the dose to hit properly. We gotta drink way more to get fucked up, for example.” She shot him a knowing look. “You remember that party last year with the champagne? Vox was sober for six hours.”

 

Angel grimaced. “Yeah. Real fun night.”

 

“It also means spiking an Overlord is… difficult,” Velvette went on, her voice dipping into a darker croon. “A few idiots tried to drug one of us once. Didn’t go well for them.”

 

That was an understatement.

 

The vial filled completely - small yet humming with dangerous potential. Velvette removed the funnel and corked it with a soft click, then held the vial up to the light. It glowed faintly. 

 

“This,” she said with a satisfied hum, “is exactly the dose we need. Just a few drops.” Her grin widened, predatory and pretty. “All we have to do now… is get it to the right person.”

 

Angel swallowed.

 

“Velvette… who exactly is the ‘right person’?”

 

“Oh, trust me, Angel - ” Velvette purred, turning the vial between her fingers, “ - you already know the answer to that question.”

 

Her tone was light, but the air in the room tightened. Angel Dust froze, every line in his slender frame going stiff. His pretty features creased into a troubled frown that softened none of the dread gathering behind his eyes.

 

“Alastor,” he breathed.

 

Velvette’s grin sharpened with feline approval. “Exactly that.”

 

She flicked her wrist, the vial dancing between her fingers with easy familiarity. Its glow caught the light and winked at him, taunting.

 

Angel took a step back.

 

“You think he’s gonna take a drink from you?” Angel asked, voice tight. “From Val? From Vox? He’s not stupid, Vel.”

 

Velvette’s laughter bubbled from her throat, bright and false as a music-box chime.

 

“Oh, sweetheart,” she crooned, “of course he wouldn’t. Alastor may be unhinged, but he isn’t careless. He’d never let us close enough to slip something into his drink.” She leaned in, tapping a manicured nail against his chest. “But he’d most certainly slip his guard around you, my love.”

 

Angel’s breath hitched. 

 

His eyes widened with something between fear and disbelief.

 

“Vel… you’re kidding. You’ve gotta be kidding. Me? You want me to dose him?”

 

His voice cracked on the last word.

 

She tilted her head, her smile blooming with genuine delight. 

 

“Who else?” she whispered. 

 

Angel felt the tremor crawl up his spine. A small, involuntary shiver. He shook his head in a stiff, jerking motion.

 

“I can’t, Vel. I - I can’t do that to him.”

 

He took another step back - away from both her and that poison - only to collide with something solid. 

 

He froze.

 

“I’m afraid,” came a voice, smooth and low, “that isn’t up to you to decide, Angel Dust.”

 

Angel startled violently, twisting around - and his breath stuttered in his throat.

 

Vox towered over him, immaculate as ever; but there was nothing polished in the sharpness of his projected gaze. It cut straight through him. 

 

“V-Vox?” Angel rasped. “I - I didn’t hear you come in. I wasn’t - I mean I didn’t - ”

 

His rambling died in a strangled noise as Vox’s hand moved. A clawed grip seized his face -  forcing his chin up. 

 

“You’re going to make,” Vox drawled, his voice dipped in something horribly tender, “for the most wonderful trap, sweetheart.”

 

Angel released a quiet whimper, his eyes falling shut; refusing to meet that gaze. 

 

“Don’t you want Alastor back?” Vox continued, stroking the line of Angel’s jaw with a thumb far too gentle for the violence hovering beneath it.

 

Angel’s lips trembled before he clamped them shut. He didn’t answer. He refused to do so. 

 

Vox forced him into an embrace, his claws sliding down his back in a gentle, soothing motion. 

 

“I know you do, Angel,” he whispered. “We all do. We’ll be a family again.”

His smile sharpened.

“Just like old times.”

Chapter 41: 41

“Shit.”

 

Husk’s voice was a gravelly scrape as he stared down at the glowing screen. Alastor hummed near him, his crimson eyes drifting lazily over the message that had just come through. 

 

Vox’s tone bled through it even in text: clipped and cold. 

 

The Overlord had finally caught wind of Alastor’s little foray into the gambling underworld.

 

And worse - he knew the doe had done it inside Husk’s territory.

 

“Interesting,” Alastor mused, clawtips brushing Husk’s shoulder. “I wonder which delightful patron of yours squealed. They always do, don’t they? Greedy creatures, desperate for scraps of favor.”

 

“Fuck if I know,” Husk muttered. His ears flattened as he reread the summons. “Either way, Vox expects me at his tower with my ass in a seat by the end of the month.”

 

Alastor chuckled.

 

“Likely to ask after me. Isn’t he sweet?”

 

Husk gave him the flattest expression imaginable, unimpressed with the doe’s mirth while his own livelihood dangled on a thread. Alastor only laughed harder. He lounged across the bed with ease, chin propped on Husk’s shoulder as though the feline were furniture.

 

“Well,” Alastor continued, voice lilting, “you must keep up appearances, dear. Go. Entertain whatever fuss he’s conjured.”

 

Husk stiffened so violently that even Alastor’s grin faltered into curiosity.

 

“Are you fuckin’ serious?” Husk snapped. “That fucker’s been on a crusade. Hunting you like you’re a fuckin’ prize stag. What the hell do you think he’s gonna do to me?”

 

“Husk.”

 

The single word cut like a razor. Alastor shifted, no longer draped lazily beside him but sitting upright. He reached out, hooking a claw  beneath Husk’s chin to guide his gaze upward until yellow eyes met crimson.

 

“You,” Alastor said, smooth as silk and twice as suffocating, “are an Overlord. Not some run-of-the-mill Sinner. You have teeth. Power. Territory and influence. I trust you implicitly to handle this… properly. Understood?”

 

“I - “

 

“Is that understood, Husk?” 

 

Husk swallowed - hard enough that Alastor saw the bob of his throat. His tail had gone still. His ears twitched once before he nodded.

 

“Y - yeah, Al.”

 

Alastor’s smile blossomed, pleased.

 

“Good,” he crooned, trailing a claw lightly along Husk’s jaw in a gesture that was half affection, half promise. “Don’t disappoint me.”

 

He pressed a soft kiss upon the feline’s forehead. 

 

❧

 

Baxter  had finally managed to trace a pattern - an uneven cluster of delayed pings that coalesced into a rough perimeter. Alastor was circling the borders of Husk’s territories with uncanny consistency. 

 

And while the microchip’s signal lagged by hours, the accumulation of data painted a picture Vox could not ignore; the doe lingered near the feline Overlord’s domain far too often for coincidence.

 

Which meant Husk was either a witness… or a collaborator.

 

Vox’s projected expression had tightened into a thin, furious slash the moment Baxter presented the findings. Plans were made immediately.

 

Angel Dust received his orders next.

 

He had been coached, relentlessly. He was given a precise directive; hover within these marked locations on the map Baxter had pinned to the wall. Not directly in Alastor’s path but close enough that the doe would eventually notice.

 

Angel’s role was crucial.

 

A sex worker by trade, he would never be unescorted without raising eyebrows. A lone Omega wandering high-risk territories was a story that stank of bait. So he’d be expected to cling to the arm of a wealthy Beta. One of Vox’s loyalists. Someone who looked the part of a client enamored with pretty flesh.

 

Someone disposable. 

 

They would frequent public places. Bars, clubs, high-end lounges - spaces where Overlords rarely intervened and where the sight of Angel Dust turning heads would seem perfectly ordinary. The illusion of mundanity was essential.

 

Angel’s task was simple:

 

Be seen.

 

And give Alastor a reason to approach.

 

Vox wagered everything on history. On nostalgia. On the memory of quiet nights and whispered confidences between two reluctant souls. He gambled that the doe’s unnatural power did not extend to severing old loyalties completely.

 

Angel Dust played the role assigned to him with the skill of a seasoned performer. A living lure dressed in silk and sequins. He laughed when prompted, leaned in when expected and allowed hands to settle on his waist with feigned ease.

 

But beneath the glitter and performance, doubt gnawed at him.

 

He questioned the very premise of the trap.

 

Would Alastor even look at him?

 

Wouldn’t he be a reminder of everything the doe wanted to escape? 

 

After all, Angel had been present for almost every indignity. Every correction. Every punishment. Every moment where Alastor had been forced to smile through humiliation while Angel watched helplessly from a corner of the room.

 

He was a relic of a former life - of their former life.

 

A bright, clattering reminder of subservience and gilded cages. And Angel feared that his face might conjure nothing but revulsion or quiet ache in the deer’s gut. Surely the mere sight of him would stir something painful. Something suffocating.

 

It made the whole plan feel flimsy.

 

And dangerous.

 

His sudden appearances in the very corners of Pentagram City where Alastor was known to linger were far too convenient. Suspiciously so. Even with Velvette’s carefully curated schedule or Vox’s insistence that irregularity made the pattern believable; Angel suspected Alastor would see through it.

 

That doe wasn’t stupid.

He never had been.

 

So they adjusted accordingly.

 

Angel’s movements were erratic - crafted to appear as though he were simply following wealthy clients from venue to venue. Sometimes he’d vanish for days, then reappear in a dive bar near Husk’s territory. Other times he’d be the star of an impromptu show in a second-rate nightclub, bathed in neon light and glitter. Just close enough that Alastor might catch a glimpse. Just subtle enough that suspicion could be dismissed as coincidence.

 

Still, the plan felt like playing with snapped piano wire.

 

Angel could feel it each time he stepped out with another Beta on his arm - an uneasy prickling beneath his skin, as though Alastor’s shadow were watching. Judging. Or worse… longing.

 

He didn’t know which possibility terrified him more.

 

Every night, when he returned to Vox’s tower, he scrubbed glitter from his fur and wondered whether he wanted the trap to succeed - or fail spectacularly.

 

❧

 

Angel sighed, the sound soft and miserably small. He’d been left alone in the extravagant booth they’d reserved for him; a plush, velvet-swathed alcove that reeked faintly of expensive perfume. 

 

His Beta companion was several yards away, chalking a cue stick and boasting his way through a round of pool with a group of other high-rolling degenerates.

 

Angel, meanwhile, curled inward.

 

He pulled his phone from his garter and let the screen glow against his white fur, illuminating the shadows beneath his eyes. His thumb hovered before he finally scrolled through a chain of old messages.

 

Alastor’s messages.

 

They read like museum pieces.

Perfect capitalization. Immaculate punctuation. Not a single emoji or shorthand abbreviation to be found. Every word selected with deliberate precision. Almost old-world in their mannerisms. As if the doe had sat at a typewriter rather than a handheld device.

 

Angel could still hear his voice through them. Could still feel that strange comfort in knowing that, for a few fleeting minutes or hours, he’d had Alastor’s focus entirely to himself.

 

Late-night exchanges.

Half-whispered phone calls where the world outside seemed to fall away.

 

Moments where Alastor’s tone softened enough for Angel to feel it.

 

It had been… nice.

 

Their conversations had been steady, intimate in a quiet way - something that was uniquely theirs. Something stitched together from companionship and the strange, fragile tenderness that had developed. 

 

Angel smiled faintly at a memory. Alastor’s dry remarks. Angel’s teasing replies. The soft pause on the other end of the line when the deer didn’t quite know how to respond but didn’t want to hang up either.

 

And then the smile wavered.

 

Because the memories hurt.

 

They throbbed like old scars. 

 

Aching reminders of a life that had shattered without warning. He doubted they’d ever share anything like that again. Not the late-night murmuring. Not the quiet comfort of knowing someone else was awake, listening. Not the sense of fragile safety wrapped in words typed neatly at two a.m.

 

Not now.

 

Not after everything.

 

Angel locked his phone with a trembling thumb, setting it face down on the table. 

 

His chest felt hollow.

 

His lashes lowered.

 

And in the quiet between bursts of laughter from the pool table, he whispered to no one in particular:

 

“Miss you, Al…”

 

“I missed you too.”

 

The words cut through the low pulse of music, spoken with such quiet certainty that Angel’s entire body lurched. 

 

His breath snagged in his throat, his lungs refusing to cooperate as something deep inside him trembled awake. His vision blurred at the edges, heat blooming behind his eyes so fast it was almost dizzying.

 

He turned.

 

The booth’s once-empty corner was no longer empty.

 

Alastor sat there as though he’d always been part of the velvet shadows, one elbow planted elegantly upon the table, his cheek resting in the crook of his claws. His grin gleamed beneath the soft red lights, but it wasn’t cruel or mocking this time. It was warm. 

 

Alive.

 

He looked alive in a way Angel had never truly seen - vibrant and unshackled, the crimson of his eyes brightened by something startlingly soft. Something that almost hurt to witness.

 

Angel’s breath hitched.

 

He’d been such an idiot. 

 

To think Alastor had tossed him aside. That the doe’s absence meant indifference rather than survival.

 

His throat tightened. His lashes quivered.

 

“Al…”

Barely a whisper. Barely anything at all.

 

Alastor’s ears gave the smallest flick - then folded back, a subtle gesture that revealed far more than any smile ever had. A fleeting vulnerability ghosted across his expression, softening the sharp angles of his face and shifting his grin into something quieter, more intimate - more real.

 

“Angel,” he whispered, voice dipped in a fondness that made the Omega's chest seize. “My dear Angel.”

 

And for a moment the rest of the room fell away. 

 

Angel’s eyes glittered, tears clinging stubbornly to his lashes as his voice broke on the cusp of something raw and aching and relieved.

 

He forgets everything.

 

The mission - the expectation - the tiny vial in his purse. 

 

“You - God, Al - why now? Why here?”

 

Alastor only smiled wider. He’d reach, cupping that beautiful face in his hands. And then their foreheads gingerly pressed together, their eyes falling shut as Angel allowed his tears to flow. 

 

“Because, my darling,” he replied, lovingly “I thought you deserved a proper hello.”

Chapter 42: 42

They luxuriated in one another’s presence as though starved for it. Because they had been. Months of absence stacked atop thirty years of shared orbit collapsed into a single moment. And suddenly they were tangled together, locked into an embrace that felt instinctive. 

 

Soft, contented sighs slipped free of them both as they drew one another close, breathing deeply and letting familiar scent and heat settle onto their tongues. Their faces drifted inward without conscious command, brushing against the vulnerable juncture of each other’s necks in a gesture that hovered just shy of undoing.

 

It was not overtly sexual - yet it was charged with a quiet, aching sensuality. The intimacy lay in the act itself: the steadiness of their proximity and the reassurance of touch after too long without it. It soothed the nerves and lit the body from within. 

 

Angel Dust released a small, satisfied sound as he breathed in Alastor’s spiced fragrance, his shoulders easing as if a long-held tension had finally melt.

 

Their faces hovered a breath apart. Their eyes met - partially lidded, softened. For a stretch of time, they simply looked at one another.

 

They felt safe.

 

They felt warm.

 

It was a sensation neither had known for far too long. Something gentle amid the wreckage of their lives. A brief, delicate glimmer of light within the dark. And in that suspended moment, neither of them could bring themselves to pull away. 

 

The moment might have stretched on.

 

But then the anxiety struck.

 

It surged through Angel like a blade - the sudden, nauseating recall of why he was here. His hold on Alastor tightened instinctively. His touch became fiercely protective and betrayed his desperation.

 

“Angel?”

 

Alastor gently pulled back, confusion blinking through his softened expression. One clawed hand lifted to cup Angel’s face with deliberate care, his touch tender. Angel leaned into it without thinking, managing a small, fleeting smile that trembled at the edges.

 

“Al - I…”

 

The doe made a soft, encouraging sound in his throat, urging him onward without pressure.

 

Angel’s mouth trembled.

 

Alastor studied him for a brief, searching moment - then gave a quiet nod of understanding, his hand never leaving Angel’s cheek. 

 

“Angel,” he said softly, insistently, the warmth of his palm still present between them. “I want you to tell me what happened to you after I left.”

 

There was a moment’s hesitation.

 

Angel’s gaze drifted, his fingers tightening briefly in the fabric of Alastor’s sleeve as though grounding himsel. His jaw worked, breath stuttering once in his chest before he finally spoke.

 

The words came quietly at first, but once they began, they did not stop.

 

❧

 

He remembered Valentino’s harsh grip first -  possessive and cruel in its certainty. 

 

Then Vox, looming over him like some towering inevitability. 

 

Velvette’s stare had pinned him in place just as surely as any hand. 

 

They had surrounded him where he’d fallen, his body trembling against the floor, one eye already swelling from the first blow that had been struck when the truth came out - when they learned about the contraceptives. 

 

He could still feel his own hands against his face, clutching at tender flesh as he shook his head over and over; insisting he didn’t know where Alastor was, didn’t know how he’d escaped - didn’t know anything.

 

 It hadn’t mattered. 

 

Vox’s fury had come down on him like a storm, first with slaps and fists, then with the cold, merciless precision of wires coiling around his limbs. The pain that followed was measured. Electricity ripping through his body again and again until screaming became the only thing his lungs could remember how to do.

 

There had been no mercy.

 

Not when he begged.

 

Not when his voice broke.

 

Not when realization settled in that, in their eyes, he was the one most responsible for destroying Vox’s chance at a child.

 

Valentino had tutted with theatrical disappointment. Velvette had sighed, sharp and irritated. 

Their family - their perfect little empire - could have grown long ago. 

 

It should have grown. 

 

And it hadn’t.

 

Because of him.

 

Because of Alastor.

 

Because of the “recalcitrant nature of their Omegas.”

 

The days that followed blurred together into something ugly and unbearable. Every mistake was corrected with a hand. Every misstep punished with pain. Angel remembered struggling just to walk straight afterward, his body tender in that deep, all-encompassing way that made every movement feel like pressing against a massive bruise.

 

It wasn’t just about discipline. It was about breaking something into place. About ensuring the fear of defiance rooted so deeply in him that he’d never dare entertain the thought again.

 

Valentino had made him film.

 

Over and over.

 

Over and over. 

 

Rough, violent productions where the audience delighted in the sight of their star sobbing and shaking beneath the weight of it all. His suffering was captured from every angle and released into the world as spectacle, his pain consumed like entertainment. 

 

Even now, the memory made his stomach twist.

 

Eventually… it eased.

 

Slowly. Almost imperceptibly at first. Touches softened. Voices lost their edge. The work became easier. The clients grew less cruel. 

 

Yet small freedoms he’d once had were gone.

 

Things were different now.

 

And they would remain different - likely for a very long time.

 

Because they were afraid of losing him too.

 

❧

 

Angel began to shake.

 

It wasn’t fear for himself.

 

Not after everything he’d already survived. It was fear for Alastor that hollowed him out now. He couldn’t bear to imagine what Vox would do once he had him again. 

 

Not when Alastor had been the one swallowing the pills. Not when Angel had been the living proof of the lie. Not when Alastor had shattered the illusion so spectacularly - broadcasting their private war to all of Hell.

 

The thought of what waited for him if he was caught made Angel’s breath hitch. His scent shifted, the sweetness turning sharp and spoiled with terror. 

 

He was terrified for him. 

 

“Angel,” Alastor said quietly, his voice steady. “I need you to trust me.”

 

The words cut through the spiraling panic just enough for Angel to force himself to breathe. He swallowed hard and lifted his gaze to meet Alastor’s, eyes glassy but earnest.

 

“I… I trust you, Al,” he whispered at last.

 

That earned a small, satisfied nod.

 

“They placed you here for a reason,” Alastor continued, his tone thoughtful. “I’m not foolish enough to pretend otherwise.”

 

Angel inhaled sharply at that and glanced over his shoulder, nerves screaming for danger that his eyes couldn’t yet find.

 

Nothing had changed.

 

His Beta companion was still loud and deep in conversation and competition at the pool table - oblivious. The den moved on as though nothing monumental were unfolding. 

And yet, beneath the fragile warmth of their reunion, Angel felt it - that crawling, instinctive prickl. The unmistakable sense of being watched. The booth was swallowed in shadow, tucked neatly into the darker seam of the den, but the feeling refused to fade. 

 

“Al,” Angel murmured at last. “I think they’re watchin’. I don’t know how. But they might know you’re here.”

 

Alastor did not startle. He merely regarded Angel with that steady, composed calm of his - so unnervingly poised. If fear touched him, he did not grant it the courtesy of showing upon his face.

 

“I expected no less,” he replied softly, with a faint curl of amusement threading through the steel beneath his tone. “Vox is quite advanced, after all. Doubtless he’s present in some way - shape or form. My dear husband so despises being left out of any performance that really matters.”

 

Even as he spoke, his eyes narrowed, the glow deepening with quiet calculation. His ears swiveled with subtle precision, tracking fragments of sound.

 

They were not alone.

 

They had never truly been alone.

 

And Alastor, it seemed, was aware of this. 

 

“Angel. I have no intention of leaving you here. To them.”

 

The words were quiet, yet they carried a finality that stole the air from Angel’s lungs. He started to speak - 

 

“Al - ”

 

But the doe moved faster. A single finger lifted, pressing gently yet insistently against Angel’s mouth. Firm enough to make its meaning unmistakable.

 

Silence.

 

“I require your full cooperation,” Alastor murmured, his tone low and deliberate. “I don’t know who they intend to send. And I very much doubt they’d deign to inform you of their plans should I make myself known.”

 

His ears continued to shift with minute precision, tracking each stray sound. His expression tightened, features lightly drawn in concentration. 

 

“They believe themselves in control. And that makes them dangerous.”

 

His finger lingered at Angel’s lips a second longer before withdrawing, his gaze steady and unblinking now as it returned to him.

 

“But so am I.” 

 

And then Alastor’s gaze slid past Angel’s shoulder.

 

The change was immediate - and terrible.

 

That ever-present grin twisted into something sharp and feral. A malicious snarl pulled back his lips, further exposing pointed teeth as his ears flattened hard against his skull in a posture of pure predatory intent.

 

Angel felt it before he understood it.

 

Something was wrong.

 

At the tail end of their conversation, the gambling den fell into silence. Not the ordinary lull between waves of noise - but a sudden, suffocating absence of sound so complete it made his ears ring. 

 

Then came the crackle.

 

Energy rippled through the space like static across exposed nerves. It raised the fine hairs along Angel’s arms. Every soul in the room froze where they stood, locked into their places. 

 

No one ran.

 

No one screamed.

 

They couldn’t.

 

And then, in a blinding flash of light and sound - there he was.

 

Perfectly centered.

 

He reached up with deliberate calm to adjust his tie, smoothing the fabric as though he had all the time in the world. Then his hands folded neatly behind his back, his posture flawless as his projected gaze settled over the two Omegas. The look he gave them implied absolute ownership.

 

Vox.

 

“Angel Dust,” he saidat last, his tone drenched in a mockery so sweet it curdled. “You silly little thing. Did you truly forget about the vial?”

 

Angel froze. Confusion crossed his face first - then fear rushed in behind it, twisting his features tight as his breath hitched painfully in his chest.

 

Vox tilted his head, observing the reaction with mild interest.

 

“We took precautions,” he continued, smoothly. “A very small microphone, tucked neatly away - just in case. Valentino, you see, had his suspicions. He was quite convinced you two would fall back into your old habits.”

 

His projected eyes slid across the pair, assessing. 

 

“And look at that,” Vox drawled, flatly. “He was right.”

 

Angel Dust shrank within his seat, his body curling inward on instinct as a tremor overtook him in full. 

 

“You’re both coming home,” Vox said at last, his voice smooth and unhurried, “This little performance of rebellion - this tiresome fantasy of yours - is over.”

 

His attention shifted then. 

 

Those projected eyes locked onto Alastor.

 

The doe met the stare without flinching, his lips still peeled back into that feral, smiling snarl - the picture of defiance. 

 

“I made a mistake,” Vox continued, his tone cooling into something cruel. “I was merciful when I should have been firm. I spared the rod.”

 

His smile thinned.

 

“But I assure you,” he said softly, with a promise that made Angel’s blood run cold, “that oversight will soon be corrected.”

Chapter 43: 43

“Al - no!”

 

Angel surged forward in blind panic as Alastor moved past him, rising with quiet intent. His hands latched desperately around the doe’s wrist, hand trembling as his eyes went wide with naked terror.

 

“I just got you back,” he whispered, hoarsely. “What if he - what if we just - ”

 

What if they ran?

Somewhere far. Somewhere safe. Away from Vox. Away from the Vees. Away from everything.

 

Alastor halted.

 

For a moment, he simply stood there, back to Angel, the noise of the clearing establishment washing around them in a rising tide of hurried footsteps and frightened murmurs. Then he turned his head just enough to look at him over his shoulder.

 

His expression softened.

 

With deliberate gentleness, he pried Angel’s fingers from his wrist.

 

“Stay here, Angel.”

 

That was all.

 

The words were neither plea nor comfort - only a command. And before Angel could protest Alastor’s fingers flexed and his staff came into existence in a ripple of red light.

 

He stepped forward.

 

The distance between him and his husband closed in slow, deliberate strides. Gone was the feral snarl. In its place settled that familiar, terrible smile. 

 

“You look well, Vincent,” Alastor said, lightly.

 

Vox’s smirk curved with instinctive possession. 

 

“As do you,” he drawled. “But you always have been an eye-catcher, sweetheart.”

 

“You flatterer,” Alastor purred, a soft chuckle slipping free.

 

And then Vox sobered.

 

The humor drained from his projected gaze, leaving behind something colder.

 

“You get one chance,” he said, quietly. “Drop this farce. Come home. Willingly.”

 

Alastor tilted his head.

 

“Mmm. I don’t believe I’ll be doing that, my dear Vincent,” he replied, primly. “I do apologize for the inconvenience.”

 

The room shifted.

 

Panic rippled as patrons scattered for exits, the last of the crowd fleeing as the air itself began to pulse with hostile power. The two of them began to circle.

 

“How long do you think this little rebellion is going to last?” Vox snarled.

 

“For an eternity,” Alastor answered, pleasantly.

 

Static cracked through Vox’s growl. Radio feedback screamed through Alastor’s answering snarl, the sounds grinding together like two broken frequencies fighting for dominance.

 

“You’re making this harder than it needs to be,” Vox pressed, voice tightening. “You think I want this? You think I wanted any of this?”

 

Alastor laughed.

 

Not hysterical. Not loud.

 

Just sharp.

 

“I couldn’t care less about your feelings on the matter,” he replied, smoothly. “Going forward, Vincent - I will do exactly as I please.”

 

And the tension snapped tighter still.

 

“You’re fucking insane,” Vox snarled. “And everyone knows it.”

 

“Am I?” Alastor replied lightly, tilting his head just enough for the red glow in his eyes to sharpen.

 

“Yes,” Vox snapped. “You are. A hysterical little bitch who doesn’t know his place.”

 

That did it.

 

Something dangerous flickered behind Alastor’s permanent smile - presenting itself as a brief, feral glint.. The air around him seemed to tighten.

 

“And what, precisely,” he asked, softly, “is my place, Vox?”

 

It was the same question he had once offered the Devil.

 

Now he offered it to his husband.

 

Vox didn’t hesitate.

 

“Beneath me.”

 

The word had barely left his mouth when motion exploded from his back - one of his wiry tendrils snapping forward with force, a living cable lashing through the air aimed squarely for the arm that held Alastor’s staff - seeking to bind. 

 

The fight was no longer circling.

 

It had begun.

 

A dark tendril burst from the shadows, moving with predatory precision as it intercepted the wire mid-strike. The impact cracked through the air like a gunshot, the force shuddering up both constructs as the Omega turned his wrist and sent his staff spinning in a graceful arc. 

 

With that single, fluid motion, more shadows answered his call - several thick tendrils tearing their way free from the gloom beneath his hooves, writhing outward like living extensions of his will.

 

Vox responded in perfect, synchronized opposition. Additional wires uncoiled from his body in snapping whips of light and static, each line humming with charged intent as they surged forward to meet the dark. 

 

What followed was not chaos, but something terrifyingly deliberate - an elegant, terrible dance between shadow and signal. Tendrils and wires clashed again and again in violent collisions, slamming together with bone-rattling force. 

 

The wires hunted relentlessly for the slim frame of the doe, snapping toward throat and wrists with mechanical precision. Alastor’s shadows lashed back with equal hunger, reaching for Vox’s core with grasping, suffocating intent. 

 

Neither gave ground. 

 

They pivoted and circled through the wreckage of the den, power grinding against power in a brutal contest of dominance.

 

It was only after their forces locked into a violent standstill that Vox vanished in a violent burst of static. The air itself screamed as the charge dispersed, energy rippling outward in a blinding flash that left scorched patterns along the damaged floor. 

 

Alastor’s eyes widened instinctively as the atmosphere became supercharged, every fine hair along his body standing on end in reflexive alarm. Even his shadows faltered for a fraction of a second, their writhing forms freezing as the pressure spiked.

 

That fraction of a second was all Vox needed.

 

Alastor barely managed a sharp intake of breath before his husband reappeared directly in front of him, space folding with a thundercrack of displaced energy. The blow came instantly - a brutal backhand driven with enough force to snap his head sideways and resulting in a helpless stagger. 

 

Stars burst across his vision, his limbs lagging as a stunned haze crept through his senses.

 

Vox loomed over him as he reeled, screen flickering with vicious distortion.

 

“Uppity fucking bitch,” he spat, his voice dripping with cruelty. “I’ll teach you what happens when you fuck with me.”

 

The doe recovered with a sharp, rattling breath. His shadowed tendrils collapsed inward. They melted seamlessly into the fractured floor, dissolving into liquid darkness - only to surge back up again as a swarm of bulbous-headed minions. 

 

Their red eyes ignited with feral glee as they burst fully into form, shrieking and snarling as they hurled themselves toward Vox in frantic defense of their summoner.

 

Vox’s grin widened into something vicious. 

 

He flexed his claws with deliberate precision and stepped forward into the onslaught, his movements devastatingly sharp. The first minion that leapt toward him was neatly bisected in a single flashing arc, its body splitting apart in a spray of shadowy residue that evaporated before it could even hit the floor. 

 

Wires erupted from his back in a defensive fan, hovering like living blades; ensuring that no angle went unguarded - front, flank and rear all locked down. 

 

The remaining minions swarmed anyway, shrieking with mad devotion.

 

Alastor gave Vox a wide berth as the Alpha tore through them with mechanical efficiency, his focus splitting as his gaze snapped instead toward Angel. 

 

The spider stood frozen at the edge of the chaos - eyes wide and unblinking, horror rooting him in place as the fight detonated around them.

 

“Angel! The back entrance!” Alastor barked, the command sharp. 

 

“Al - I - ” Angel’s voice broke, panic stealing his breath.

 

“You’re going nowhere, bitch!” Vox snarled, his voice crackling with distortion as one of his wires coiled and launched with ballistic speed.

 

Alastor’s attention snapped back just in time to see it streak toward Angel. 

 

There was no hesitation.

 

One of his minions dissipated instantly at his will, its form unraveling into raw shadow that he redirected in a violent snap. A thin tendril of darkness lashed outward and collided with the incoming wire in a shriek of tearing energy, the impact blasting both constructs apart in a violent scatter of static and shadow.

 

It was enough to finally jar Angel into motion. The spider lurched as though woken from a trance, scrambling back in a blind panic as he bolted for the rear exit, limbs tangling over themselves as instinct finally overrode terror. 

 

The moment his movement registered, Alastor’s attention snapped back onto his husband - just in time to meet Vox’s gaze across the chaos.

 

For a fraction of a second, the world narrowed to that single line of sight.

 

Then Vox snarled.

 

He tore through the last of the shrieking minions in a storm of snapping wires and flashing claws before launching himself forward in a violent surge of static and wrath. The charge was relentless - pure momentum and intent rolled into one devastating advance.

 

Alastor dismissed his staff without ceremony.

 

He dragged in a harsh, grounding breath; muscle memory snapping into place as echoes of Adam’s relentless training burned through him. His shoulders squared. His spine locked.

 

Then his claws emerged.

 

No longer the modest, ornamental talons of an Omega. They elongated with a visceral pull, bone and shadow knitting together with a predatory grace as they grew into something formidable. Deep crimson, curved and wickedly sharp. They rivaled Vox’s in size and lethality now, power humming through them as his hands flexed.

 

Vox closed the distance a heartbeat later, the space between them annihilated in a violent collision of bodies. The impact was brutal enough to rattle bone, the two of them slamming together in a blur of claws, teeth and flashing static. 

 

Alastor was forced to fully commit as he banished the remnants of his minions without ceremony. There was no room for distraction now. 

 

Not against Vox.

 

They met as equals in fury if nothing else.

 

Both bore their teeth as they fought, snarling through clenched jaws as claws scraped and slashed in close quarters. Red and blue fabric tore beneath their movements, once-pristine suits shredded by the sheer violence of their struggle. 

 

Static scorched across the floor where Vox moved; shadow bled and recoiled where Alastor struck. 

 

Flesh parted beneath claw, though never deeply enough to be decisive. Subtle shifts at the last second turned grievous strikes into stinging wounds instead of finishing blows. 

 

Eventually they broke apart, retreating by a few cautious paces. 

 

Vox recovered almost immediately, his posture settling into predatory ease as though the violence had barely taxed him at all. Alastor, by contrast, was forced to draw in harsh, dragging breaths - his chest rising and falling as sweat slicked his brow and darkened the fur at his throat.

 

Power thrummed through him, yes - but it was still new. Still untested in wars of attrition. The truth of that weakness clung to him no matter how fiercely he tried to deny it.

 

“Weak,” Vox spat, the word dripping with contempt.

 

Alastor’s glare cut like broken glass as they circled one another again - his lips peeling back from his teeth in a low, vicious snarl. The panting never fully left his voice when he answered, but neither did the malice.

 

“If I were so weak, Vincent,” he replied, coldly, “you wouldn’t still be standing here trying to prove it.”

 

“Don’t delude yourself into thinking I’d waste every tool in my arsenal on someone like you,” Vox sneered. “That would be beneath me.”

 

“As am I, apparently,” Alastor grunted, forcing air into burning lungs as he straightened despite the tremor in his limbs.

 

“Just so,” Vox replied, his grin carving wider. “And one day you’ll acknowledge it.”

 

Alastor’s head tilted. “Is that so?”

 

“Oh, yes.” Vox’s tone dipped into a low, intimate purr. “And I look forward to that day, baby.”

 

The word crawled over Alastor’s skin like oil.

 

“I missed you.”

 

There was nothing subtle about the hunger twisting Vox’s grin now and Alastor recognized it instantly for what it was. 

 

“Valentino not keeping you satisfied?” Alastor sneered.

 

Vox laughed. “Both of you can.”

 

Alastor’s ears flattened. “You think I want you anywhere near my cunt?”

 

“Don’t be like that,” Vox crooned, utterly unfazed. “I know you want me.”

 

Alastor leveled him with a flat, dead stare.

 

And then he noticed it.

 

The smallest shift - Vox’s gaze sliding past him, over his shoulder.

 

Just a flicker of attention, gone almost as soon as it appeared. But it was enough. Alastor’s spine straightened as his sixth sense screamed in warning, every instinct flaring at once.

 

Bang.

 

Something hot and brutal tore into his shoulder, the impact stealing the breath from his lungs as pain detonated through him. Blood sprayed in a sudden, violent arc, the force staggering him half a step as the world lurched sideways.

 

He managed to steady himself, his claw reaching for his shoulder; pulling away to reveal a hand covered in blood. His vision blurring at the corners. 

 

“Oh, my little cervato, how I missed you.” 

 

Chapter 44: 44

Vox and Valentino moved with unmistakable patience, slow and deliberate as apex predators circling wounded prey. 

 

Each step they took was measured. Only the loose ring of shadow-tendrils surrounding Alastor kept them at bay, the living darkness writhing and flexing. Their pointed ends hovered inches from lethal extension, promising violence should either of them step too close.

 

Alastor clutched his shoulder hard, claws digging into blood-slick fur as another sharp lance of pain tore through him. The impact still rang in his bones. His breath hitched despite his best efforts to steady it.

 

He’d slipped.

 

Just for a moment.

 

His attention had narrowed into a singular point following Angel’s departure. 

 

His gaze flicked relentlessly between the two Alphas now, teeth bared in a silent snarl as Valentino’s eyes gleamed with open hunger and Vox’s screen glowed with cold precision.

 

“It’s over now, Alastor,” Vox declared, his voice smooth with finality. “You’ve had your little performance. Curtain’s fallen.”

 

“I decide when it’s over, Vincent,” Alastor snapped back, his grin sharp with bloodied defiance. “And I’m still standing. That means I can still fight.”

 

Vox regarded him with faint disbelief, his gaze drifting pointedly to the claw still pressed to Alastor’s shoulder - slick with red. Blood slid down his arm in lazy rivulets, dripping to the ruined floor with soft, wet taps.

 

“I’d prefer you didn’t make this uglier than it already is,” Vox replied, coolly. “You’re my wife. I don’t enjoy seeing you like this.”

 

“Then do me the courtesy,” Alastor hissed, eyes blazing, “and leave me to bleed out in peace.”

 

Vox’s expression hardened.

 

“You and I both know that isn’t an option,” he said. “We’ll fix you. Like we always do.”

 

“And do to me what you did to Angel Dust?” Alastor shot back. “He told me everything.”

 

The air sharpened between them.

 

“You fostered a lie,” Vox replied, evenly. “And he chose to participate. That makes you both guilty. Once we retrieve him, this little episode ends. We all go home.”

 

A gunshot cracked the space.

 

Alastor shifted instinctively, the bullet slicing past his arm close enough to burn the air.

 

“Impressive reflexes,” Valentino purred.

 

More shots rang out in rapid succession. Alastor twisted, ducked, pivoted - every movement tight. His focus narrowed brutally. 

 

Vox didn’t strike. 

 

He watched the way Alastor moved. The way the shadows obeyed. And his eyes narrowed, a flicker of understanding dawning upon his expression.

 

“That staff,” Vox said, quietly. “You didn’t own that before.”

 

Alastor spat blood at his feet in answer.

 

Vox’s screen dimmed, then brightened.

 

“So that’s it,” he said. “That’s your source.”

 

He tilted his head, analyzing.

 

“I’ll be sure to account for it.”

 

As they continued to circle him, the shadows at Alastor’s back deepened. His blood pooled unnoticed at his feet, dark and spreading. And within it, something stirred.

 

The shadow extended.

 

It stretched upward from the floor, rising until it mirrored his silhouette perfectly - ears, antlers, grin and all.

 

Valentino noticed first.

 

“The fuck is that  - !”

 

The lights flickered.

 

A tendril lashed around Valentino’s leg and limbs, yanking hard as one of his guns was wrenched downward mid-aim. He cursed viciously as the weapon discharged uselessly into the floor.

 

Vox’s attention snapped to him - 

 

- and Alastor moved.

 

The defensive tendrils collapsed in a single violent sweep - reforming into jagged, spear-like projections that drove forward with murderous speed.

 

“Fuck - !”

 

Vox vanished in a violent burst of static, retreating just in time as the shadow spears buried themselves into the floor  where he’d once stood.

 

When he reappeared, his eyes were blazing.

 

Alastor staggered.

 

The adrenaline was fading now, leaving tremor and weakness in its wake. His legs shook. His breath came ragged. 

 

This was it.

 

Alastor’s form unraveled into shadow.

 

His body flattened against the floor in a slick, writhing smear of darkness that slithered low and fast toward the exit, clinging desperately to every scrap of shadow that could obscure his path. The wound in his shoulder burned like liquid fire, but instinct overrode pain now. 

 

“Oh no you fucking don’t!” Vox roared.

 

His wires detonated outward in a violent bloom, unraveling from his back in snapping arcs of energized cable that lashed toward the fleeing shadow with precision. They struck where Alastor had been mere seconds before, tearing gouges through floor and wall alike as they missed their mark by inches.

 

Gunfire followed

 

Valentino reloaded with brutal efficiency, cartridges clicking and locking with practiced ease before another vicious volley erupted. Bullets chewed through the space Alastor fled through.

 

The shadow weaved.

 

It bent impossibly thin, warped around impacts and surged forward in an erratic, serpentine motion. And from its wake, small shapes tore free.

 

Minions clawed their way up from the floor in a babble of static-laced laughter and wet tearing sounds. They weren’t many. Barely a handful.

 

But they didn’t need to be.

 

They swarmed.

 

A loud, furious curse tore from Vox as the creatures slammed into his wires, intercepted Valentino’s line of fire and hurled themselves bodily into the path of pursuit with suicidal devotion. It cost him precious seconds.

 

Seconds Alastor used.

 

The shadow surged through the back exit - the same one Angel had fled through earlier - and reformed just enough to slip out into the night beyond.

 

The moment he slipped beneath the door a massive shape slammed into place.

 

A brawny minion planted itself squarely before the entryway, its claws unfurling as its red eyes locked onto the approaching Alphas.

 

Its snarl filled the hall leading to the doorway, daring the encroaching pair to try.

 

❧

 

Alastor staggered once his form solidified, one clawed hand instantly flying to his shoulder as his pupils constricted into small pricks of black. The outside world tilted violently around him.

 

Blood continued to pulse hot and slick between his fingers, soaking through crimson fabric and dripping in uneven splatters against the pavement below. Every breath he dragged into his lungs came out warped. 

 

For a moment, he could only stand there and bleed.

 

His gaze jerked frantically across the alley, ears twitching, vision blurring at the edges as his body fought to stay upright. He searched through shadow and half-light, heart stuttering violently in his ribs.

 

Angel Dust was nowhere in sight.

 

Panic flared but it was smothered almost as quickly as it had risen.

 

The scent of brimstone was present. 

 

It curled into his lungs with every strained breath, burning and grounding him all at once.

 

That was good.

 

That was very good.

 

His shoulders sagged as a weak, breathless laugh threatened to claw its way out of his chest and failed - dissolving instead into a harsh exhale. The tension that had been wound so tightly through his spine finally loosened. 

 

That meant the arrangement had come to fruition.

 

It meant Adam had answered the call.

 

“In exchange,” the doe went on, “for allowing you the pleasure of my company during that time… you will grant me a favor. A very specific one.”

He let the next line fall with pointed delicacy.

“One the King has granted me explicit permission to request.”

 

Adam’s excitement dimmed a touch, replaced by a narrowing of the eyes; a flicker of caution present. 

 

“And what’s that?” he asked, guarded.

 

“I have someone I’m particularly fond of. They’re thoroughly entangled with the Vees,” Alastor explained. “I require assistance extracting him. When the opportunity arises - I need you to be there.”

 

Adam froze halfway through the explanation, his brows rising and his expression shifting from suspicion… to confusion… to mild surprise.

 

“Huh,” Adam muttered, blinking once. “That’s… not the worst ask.”

 

He needed to escape.

 

The sounds of violence thundered on the other side of the door. Each impact reverberated through the thin barrier at his back. He had seconds at most before Vox would tear through into the alley himself to drag him back by force.

 

Alastor tried to move.

 

Tried to dissolve.

 

Tried to sink into shadow the way he had dozens of times before.

 

But the world lurched violently sideways instead.

 

His vision smeared into streaks of light and darkness as his knees buckled without warning. His balance deserted him completely. He pitched forward and hit the grimy cement hard, the impact jarring breath from his lungs as his body crumpled in on itself with a helpless, trembling spasm.

 

Pain roared up his shoulder anew, robbing him of what little strength remained. His limbs shook as if they no longer belonged to him. His blood continued to spill, warm and relentless.

 

Strength drained fast now.

 

Too fast.

 

But Angel Dust was safe.

 

The thought clung to him with quiet, desperate insistence.

 

He’s safe.

 

The world narrowed to that single truth as darkness crept inward at the edges of his vision. The noise behind the door felt distant now, muffled beneath the roaring in his ears. 

 

A fragile sense of completion settled into his bones.

 

His eyes slid shut.

 

Safe.

 

❧

“Al!”

 

In his dream, Alastor squinted up at the familiar ceiling of Vox’s penthouse. Valentino and Vox were gone - leaving the space strangely quiet in their absence. As always, that usually meant he and Angel Dust had been left behind together; an unspoken arrangement that had become routine over the years.

 

And, truthfully… these moments were nice.

 

Angel Dust filled the quiet with easy chatter, rambling about nothing and everything in that effortless way of his. Most of it was one-sided, but Alastor listened anyway, content to simply hear his voice. At some point, exhaustion had crept up on him and he’d drifted off without realizing it.

 

“Were ya asleep?”

 

A light weight settled against him. Alastor stirred where he’d claimed the sofa, his head propped awkwardly against the armrest. He cracked his eyes open to find Angel leaning over him, eyes shining with quiet amusement.

 

“I suppose I was,” he murmured, voice still thick with sleep.

 

Angel chuckled softly. “Heh. Guess I was that borin’, huh?”

 

“Oh, never,” Alastor replied at once, his smile broadening as he reached up absently - brushing Angel’s arm with affectionate ease. “You’re far too lively for that, my dear.”

 

Angel shifted, sliding closer without hesitation. “Good. ‘Cause I could use a nap too - and you ain’t half bad as a body pillow.”

 

Alastor huffed quietly, amused. “Really now? I hardly strike myself as anything close to comfortable.”

 

Angel smirked. “Eh. Could use a little more padding, sure. But beggars can’t be choosers… and you smell nice.”

 

A quiet sound escaped Alastor at that - something soft and pleased - as Angel settled fully against him, their limbs shifting naturally until they fit together with familiar ease. He let his arms curl around the other Omega without thinking, nose brushing faintly against Angel’s hair as he breathed him in.

 

Angel grew quiet almost instantly.

 

Alastor let his eyes drift shut again.

 

Safe. 

 

He felt safe. 

 

Chapter 45: 45

Hands moved over his flesh with practiced precision, warm and unhurried. 

 

Alastor stirred faintly at the sensation, breath catching as awareness bled back into him. The touch was firm and teetered on intimate - occasionally accompanied by a light caress of flesh and fur. 

 

“You fracture so easily, pet,” a familiar voice drawled. 

 

His eyes fluttered open.

 

Too-familiar silk beneath his back and a too-familiar presence was above him. The air tasted of crisp apple - fresh and sweet and edged with bitterness. 

 

“Lucifer,” he sighed.

 

“Mm.”

 

It was the same ritual as before. His body laid bare to the open air while perfect hands traced over torn flesh and fading damage, coaxing muscle and marrow back into alignment. Each touch lingered just long enough to remind him that this was not mercy - it was ownership. 

 

“Your little companions brought you to my gates in such a state,” Lucifer continued, lightly. “Presented you as one might a shattered heirloom. One does wonder if they understand how delicate you truly are.”

 

Alastor squinted, vision sharpening as the haze receded.

 

Morningstar Castle.

 

Not the penthouse. 

 

Not Vox.

 

A thin thread of something dangerously close to relief wound through his chest before he could stop it. And yet - beneath it lingered the quiet, sick thought:

 

Is this truly any better?

 

Bone-deep exhaustion tugged at him, inviting him to sink back into oblivion.

 

“Where are they?” he asked, softly.

 

Lucifer’s hands did not pause. “Your companions linger just beyond the threshold,” he replied. 

 

“All of them?” Alastor asked, hopeful. 

 

A faint smile curved against his ribs as the King answered, “Niffty. Husk. And Angel Dust.”

 

The names struck deeper than he expected.

 

Relief slid through him.

 

“Allow me to finish first,” Lucifer added smoothly, fingers gliding once more over torn flesh with deliberate slowness. “Then you may have your reunion. I would hate for you to fall apart again in their arms, pet.”

 

His features tightened as the last of the damage was drawn out of him. The process was slow and far from pleasant. Lucifer even lingered a moment to display the mangled remnant of the bullet that had lodged in his shoulder, cradling the misshapen metal between his fingers with open fascination.

 

As though it were a keepsake.

 

As though it delighted him.

 

Alastor turned his head away, jaw set as the final pressure was applied. 

 

The ache melted from his bones in a way that felt almost unnatural. He inhaled slowly, registering the strange cleanliness that clung to him. Upon closer notice, it wasn’t imagined. His fur was immaculate, glossed and soft, free of sweat, blood and the iron-stench of battle. Every trace of what had happened had been carefully erased.

 

“Would you care to dress?” Lucifer asked. “Or would you prefer to present yourself as you are? I’m sure Husk is simply devastated at the idea of being the only one denied the sight of your natural state.”

 

The teasing lilt in his voice was unmistakable.

 

Alastor frowned faintly but said nothing as a robe was draped over his shoulders. It fit him perfectly; the fabric impossibly soft and dyed a rich, deliberate shade of red.

 

He slipped into it without protest.

 

Lucifer lifted two fingers in a casual, precise gesture. The doors obeyed instantly, swinging open without ever being touched.

 

Three figures waited just beyond the threshold.

 

For a heartbeat, none of them moved.

 

Then Niffty broke.

 

She rushed forward without hesitation, nearly colliding with him as she flung herself into his lap. Alastor released a soft, startled grunt as her arms locked around his waist. 

 

“You’re okay - you’re okay - you’re really okay!” she babbled, voice trembling.

 

“I’m quite fine, my girl,” Alastor said, claws gingerly settling atop her head as he stroked through her hair. “Nothing I couldn’t manage.”

 

Husk lingered several steps back, eyes sharp as they swept over the gilded room, every inch of it radiating a danger he didn’t care to define. 

 

“You didn’t look ‘fine’ when Adam hauled your ass in,” he muttered. “You were torn up pretty bad.”

 

Alastor gave a quiet huff of amusement. “Vox was rather enthusiastic, wasn’t he? He does get… rough, when he’s feeling sentimental.”

 

Husk grimaced at that, clearly unimpressed.

 

Then Alastor’s gaze shifted.

 

It settled on Angel.

 

The spider stood rigid near the doorway, arms wrapped tight around their own narrow frame like a shield. Their eyes couldn’t quite hold his - flicking from the floor to his face and back again, guilt and fear warring openly in their expression.

 

Alastor’s smile softened. 

 

“Angel,” he said, quietly.

 

Angel hesitated for only a fraction of a second before their feet carried them forward on their own. The distance closed slowly, as if fear still clung to every step, until Alastor’s arms lifted just enough to receive them. Angel all but collapsed into the embrace, pressing their face into the warm juncture of his neck, breath hitching. 

 

It was awkward, crowded but the warmth of it was undeniable. Real. Alastor adjusted without complaint, one arm remaining around Niffty while the other settled more securely around Angel’s back, his clawed hand resting there in quiet reassurance.

 

Husk lingered close, his posture relaxed as he watched them cling to one another. His expression softened despite himself, ears twitching as he averted his gaze just enough to grant them privacy without truly leaving their side.

 

Lucifer observed it all in silence.

 

There was interest there but none of it was warm. The devil’s face remained composed, eyebrows faintly arched - his gaze precise and analytical as it fixes upon Angel Dust. 

 

❧

 

Alastor found himself back within the quiet safety of his bedchambers. Husk had parted ways at the threshold, retreating to his own quarters with a lingering, conflicted look. Niffty and Angel Dust remained at his side, hovering close as they guided him forward on unsteady hooves and trembling legs.

 

He was weak.

 

Utterly drained.

 

Lucifer had sealed his wounds with precision, but Alastor had burned through himself far too recklessly. His body and mind felt heavy. They steadied him when his knees threatened to buckle, easing him back until the mattress met his spine. The moment his weight sank into the bed, a soft, weary sigh escaped him.

 

Rest. 

 

Finally.

 

“I should - uh…” Angel began, fumbling awkwardly as he shifted to pull away.

 

Alastor’s eyes never opened.

 

“Stay.”

 

The word was quiet. Barely more than a breath.

 

Angel froze and then visibly relaxed. 

 

Relief softened his posture as he carefully climbed onto the bed instead of retreating. Niffty was already there, curled tightly against Alastor’s side, her small form tucked close. Angel settled more hesitantly, lowering his head to rest against Alastor’s chest. After a heartbeat, he relaxed too.

 

Their combined scent washed over him.

 

It eased the ache in his bones. 

 

Stilled the tremor in his limbs.

 

For the first time in a long time Alastor felt something close to peace.

 

❧

 

Vox stood over the blood Alastor had left behind, his gaze fixed upon the dark smear that streaked across the ruined concrete. For a fleeting moment, he’d allowed himself the hope that his wife had collapsed somewhere nearby - weak and waiting to be gathered up and dragged back where he belonged. 

 

Alastor had slipped away.

 

That, too, had been anticipated.

 

Failure was merely an invitation to escalate.

 

He lowered himself into a crouch and extended a claw, dragging it slowly through the sticky warmth before lifting it to his mouth. His tongue flicked out, tasting the copper tang with reverence. The sensation struck something deep and intimate inside him - memories surging unbidden. 

 

The first time he had claimed his wife. The heat of torn flesh. The way Alastor had screamed. His projected eyes drifted shut as a look of bliss softened his features, indulgent and private.

 

Behind him, Valentino spoke rapidly into his phone, sharp Spanish spilling from his lips in a low, efficient cadence. The call ended shortly after.

 

“Is Angel’s chip functional?” Vox asked, rising to his full height as he smoothed the tatters of his suit out of reflex alone.

 

“Si,” Valentino replied, sliding  his device away. “They’ve left Pentagram City proper.”

 

Vox’s posture stilled. “Trajectory.”

 

“Morningstar Castle, carino.”

 

At that,  Alastor’s husband crossed his arms, head tilting as his eyes shut once more in thought.

 

“And Angel’s purse?”

 

Valentino withdrew a long, elegantly designed cigarette and lit it before taking a slow drag. Smoke curled lazily around his face as he exhaled. 

 

“With him. His phone’s last ping matched the chip.”

 

Vox smiled.

 

“Perfect.”

 

Chapter 46: 46

Alastor and Angel Dust were elegantly arranged upon a richly appointed loveseat, a perfect portrait of poise and presentation. Both were dressed in attire befitting their status as royal guests - a distinction Lucifer had insisted upon with thinly veiled insistence. 

 

Proper dress, after all, was simply another language of control within his domain.

 

Neither of them complained. They had both endured far worse than corsets, tailored trousers and fitted blouses.

 

Niffty, too, had been dressed. Though her gown was comparatively modest. Red and white silk, simple in cut - elegant without rivaling the two Omegas seated beside her. She fidgeted with the hem, eyes bright but posture unusually restrained.

 

And Husk…. well.

 

Husk had been suited.

 

Dark pinstripes tailored to fit his frame, his fur neatly groomed and hair slicked back with meticulous care. A polished cane rested within easy reach, its handle shaped like dice. The imps had seen to every last detail with unnerving precision. 

 

The rest of them lingered at a respectful distance.

 

Angel Dust idled the moments away by slipping his hand casually into his purse, scrolling through messages with idle elegance. The handbag itself was exquisite - white leather, silver-toned chain strap crossing over one delicate shoulder to the opposite hip. 

 

It looked expensive. 

 

Alastor glanced sideways, curiosity flickering.

 

“Any messages from Valentino?”

 

Angel’s brow knit as he stared at the screen.

 

“Yeah,” he muttered. “He’s… he’s not happy, Al. But signal’s basically non-existent here. The last message he sent got through just before we left the city.”

 

Alastor hummed softly, unimpressed.

 

“You’re beyond their reach now, Angel.”

 

There was hesitation in the spider’s posture - a tightening in his shoulders.

 

“You sure?”

 

Alastor snorted lightly.

 

“Doubtful they’d try to storm the gates without a formal petition first - if they’ve even confirmed our location.”

 

Angel hesitated, lowering the phone into his lap.

 

“I just… you really think the King’ll keep us safe?”

 

Alastor turned fully toward him then, smile gentle but eyes sharp with promise.

 

“If he does not,” he said, quietly, “then I most certainly will, dear Angel.”

 

Angel swallowed and nodded.

 

After a brief hesitation, Angel tucked the device away and shifted closer, gently leaning into Alastor’s shoulder as his eyes slid shut. The movement was natural - instinctive. 

 

Alastor responded without pause, his hand settling at the gentle curve of Angel’s hip, guiding him closer with an easy, practiced intimacy.

 

It was a position they knew well. One that spoke of long nights, quiet moments and mutual refuge.

 

“I know, Al,” Angel murmured, softly. “I know.”

 

Alastor’s grip tightened fractionally, momentarily overcome with the natural desire to keep the Omega safe. 

 

Husk released a disgruntled huff from the background, the sound low and unmistakably irritated. 

 

It was enough to draw Alastor’s attention. The doe turned toward him at once, notably careful to keep his distance - mindful that even the faintest trace of scent could cling to the expensive fabrics. One careless overlap could betray Husk’s allegiance outright… and there was no doubt it would stoke Vox’s possessive fury if detected.

 

Angel Dust and Niffty maintained their distance as well, content to observe rather than intrude.

 

“You cut quite the figure, Husk,” Alastor remarked, his tone warmly approving. “Don’t you agree, my darlings?”

 

Niffty bobbed her head with vigorous enthusiasm, clapping her hands together with a bright little smile. Angel Dust’s gaze slid unabashedly down the length of the feline’s tailored frame, his lips curving with open admiration.

 

Husk adjusted his collar with a gruff mutter, heat creeping into his features beneath the attention of two Omegas and one unabashedly enthusiastic Beta woman.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled. “Stare all ya want.”

 

Alastor’s smile softened - just a hint.

 

“Take care to come back to us whole now,” he said, gently.

 

Husk gave a sharp nod.

 

❧

 

Vox’s tower was massive.

 

An impossibly tall spire of glass and light that stabbed up toward the skyline like a monument to excess. Husk craned his neck as he peered up at it, having only just stepped away from the limousine’s open door. 

 

He took a moment to steady himself, flexing his claws against the pavement and reminding himself that he had chosen this vehicle deliberately. If he was going to walk into the lion’s den, he’d at least do it wrapped in the illusion of wealth and confidence.

 

And wealth was no longer an issue.

 

Alastor had somehow been granted direct access to Lucifer’s vaults. The King acting as his literal sugar daddy in a way that was almost obscene. The promise of revitalizing Husk’s gambling empire had not only come to fruition, it had accelerated at a terrifying pace. 

 

Debts were being devoured, influence restored and territory reinforced. Power was pooling back into Husk’s paws. Before long, he’d be able to expand in earnest - solidify his standing within the demonic hierarchy instead of merely clinging to it.

 

And still… it meant nothing here.

 

Because no matter how much influence he reclaimed, it didn’t come close to touching Vox.

 

So this is where Alastor lived.

 

Husk exhaled slowly, his gaze drifting up the sheer face of the tower once more. 

 

Alastor was a goddamned enigma - impossible to fully read, impossible to dismiss. There was something gravitational about him. Husk didn’t understand it. Didn’t like that he didn’t understand it. 

 

But standing here now, staring up at the monument to everything Alastor had escaped from…

 

He was beginning to understand why Vox hadn’t been willing to let him go.

 

He was greeted just inside the threshold by a sharply dressed Sinner, their attire immaculate - tailored to the standards of a modern servant. 

 

“Mister Husk, is it?” the attendant asked politely.

 

“The one and only,” Husk replied, keeping his tone lax, shoulders loose.

 

“Mister Vox will be expecting you.”

 

He nodded, schooling his expression into something neutral as he followed the servant deeper into the tower. He resisted the urge to swallow thickly and flee. The doors slid shut behind him with a soft, final sound. 

 

He was stepping into the very building that had been Alastor’s prison for thirty years.

 

❧

 

The interior of the tower was drowning in promotional material. 

 

An obscene amount of it. 

 

Perfectly manipulated images were embedded directly into the walls, lining the hallways in neat, curated rows - immortalized in glossy perfection. 

 

Husk’s gaze slid over each of them in turn.

 

Velvette posed in high-fashion designer wear, all sharp angles and calculated allure. Valentino lounged across leather couches like a decadent king, smug and indulgent even in stillness. Vox stood tall and cocksure, posture screaming ownership. 

 

And then there was Angel Dust.

 

His images were deliberately obscene - hips canted just so, long legs on display and poses crafted to drag the eye exactly where they wanted it. Every picture invited consumption. 

 

Husk’s jaw tightened.

 

Alastor’s portraits were different.

 

They stood apart in their restraint. Elegant, conservative by comparison and draped in refinement rather than spectacle. And yet they were no less provocative. The pull was subtler. Intentional. His gaze followed you from every angle, his smile suggesting far more than it ever showed.

 

Not merchandise.

 

A prize.

 

And somehow, that made it worse.

 

And then it hit him just what kind of hole he had fallen into.

 

This wasn’t branding.

 

This wasn’t marketing.

 

This was a shrine.

 

Alastor and Angel Dust weren’t merely assets here. They were idols. Preserved in imagery and obsession. Every wall whispered ownership. Every polished surface reflected devotion twisted into control.

 

And the Vees?

 

They weren’t just going to let them go.

 

Husk’s stomach dropped. 

 

Oh fuck.

 

Oh fuck fuck fuck.

 

❧

 

“Husk! At last! What a pleasure to finally put a face to the name.”

 

The feline forced a grin and clasped the offered hand with careful firmness.

 

“Pleasure’s mine, Mister Vox. Been hearin’ your name a long time.”

 

Vox’s grip was cool and controlled. 

 

They separated, and Vox gestured smoothly toward the chair opposite his desk. Once Husk was seated the Overlord settled back into his own seat, fingers steepling. 

 

“I must say,” Vox continued lightly, “your little operation has been… flourishing. Quite the recovery, considering where you were not so long ago.”

 

Husk exhaled through his nose, letting a crooked smirk tug at his mouth.

 

“Yeah, well. Luck’s a funny thing. Comes back around when you least expect it.”

 

“Mm,” Vox hummed. “I find it usually isn’t luck at all. More often - it’s patronage.”

 

A faint prickle of unease slid down Husk’s spine, but he kept the grin in place.

 

“If only I were that fortunate,” he replied lightly. “Benefactors are in short supply these days.”

 

“Indeed,” Vox replied. 

 

The Overlord fell silent for a brief moment. Too long to be casual. His gaze swept over Husk. 

 

Then - 

 

“Let me be direct,” Vox said smoothly. “I’ve received some… rather intriguing reports regarding my wife’s recent whereabouts.”

 

Husk didn’t miss a beat. His expression barely shifted.

 

“Yeah,” he said, exhaling through his nose. “Afraid he’s been stirrin’ up a little trouble in my territory.”

 

For the first time, Vox blinked.

 

A measured nod followed, his smile tightening by a fractional degree. 

 

“I see,” Vox murmured. “Then you understand my position. I am, naturally, concerned for my wife’s wellbeing.”

 

He leaned back in his chair, fingers  remaining steepled - posture relaxed in a way that was anything but.

 

“And I was rather hoping,” he continued, pleasantly, “that perhaps the two of us might… collaborate.”

 

Husk’s ears perked on cue. His expression brightened just enough to sell the interest, the gambler in him rising to the surface.

 

“Collaborate?” he echoed. “Now you’ve got my attention. In what way?”

 

Vox’s smile widened. 

 

“I’m simply asking for transparency,” he replied. “You tell me when he appears. Where he lingers. Who he keeps company with.”

 

A pause.

 

“In exchange,” Vox added, smoothly, “I ensure your little empire continues to flourish untouched.”

 

The offer hung between them. 

 

Husk’s ears tipped forward, interest flashing unmistakably across his face.

 

“How about I sweeten that offer?” he ventured.

 

Vox paused. 

 

“Oh?” he hummed. “Do enlighten me.”

 

“Your wife’s got a taste for the tables,” Husk continued. “And for whatever reason, he doesn’t seem to mind me.”

 

Vox’s projected brow twitched.

 

“I stay close,” Husk went on. “Play the harmless ‘friend.’ Keep him comfortable. Let him think he’s safe. He’ll loosen up eventually - folks always do.”

 

A pause. Then, with a slow curl of his grin - 

 

“And when the moment’s right… I tip you off.”

 

Vox studied him in silence for a beat. Then his smile returned, pleased.

 

“A man after my own heart,” he said, smoothly. “Yes… I believe we most certainly have an arrangement, Husk.”

 

❧

 

Alastor burst into bright, unrestrained laughter, tipping backward onto the sofa as though the force of his amusement had knocked him clean off balance. Angel, perched neatly beside him, blinked at the display. 

 

“Marvelous, Husk,” Alastor declared, one claw pressed dramatically to his chest. “Absolutely brilliant.”

 

Husk stood there with one brow arched, watching the doe mop at the corner of his eye as the laughter tapered into delighted chuckles. The recounting of his tale upon his return having been rewarded with peals of laughter. 

 

“I knew I picked you for a reason,” Alastor added, warmly.

 

“Y–yeah,” Husk muttered, clearing his throat and pointedly looking anywhere but at him.

 

Angel shifted, tilting his head as his curiosity finally won out.

“So… what now?”

 

Alastor’s grin  carved wide with wicked satisfaction.

 

“Now?” he purred. “Now we plan.”

 

His eyes gleamed.

 

“And then we get to work.”

Chapter 47: 47

Notes:

Smut is sandwiched in-between.

Is Vox being 'cucked' plot relevant?

Yeah.

Just stow it away in the realm of memory.

Adam’s mouth traced along the line of Alastor’s throat, teeth grazing just enough to promise without quite breaking skin as he pressed him back into the yielding softness of the bed.

 

“Adam,” Alastor warned, breath hitching despite himself.

 

“C’mon, babe,” Adam murmured against his pulse. “You owe me.”

 

Alastor exhaled slowly, the sound edged with irritation as he clicked his tongue in a quiet, scolding tsk.

 

“You did precisely what I expected of you.”

 

“I doubled back for your ass,” Adam shot back. “I’m owed a little extra on top of our original deal.” 

 

He pulled away just far enough to cage Alastor beneath him, his shadow swallowing the smaller frame whole.

 

Up close, Adam always struck that strange balance between monster and man. Beneath the wings, tail, teeth and the talons, he was disarmingly human -  broad-shouldered, rough-edged and dark haired. Big in every way that counted. 

 

The disparity between them was unmistakable.

 

“You’d be suckin’ Vox’s dick right now if it weren’t for me,” Adam continued, bluntly. “You ask me to save the spider bitch and outta the goodness of my heart, I scooped you too.”

 

Alastor lifted his chin, unimpressed.

“Was it truly the goodness of your heart, Adam?” he asked, lightly. “Or were you simply enchanted by the idea of my cunt?”

 

Adam arched a brow.

 

Alastor met it with a dry, knowing stare.

 

“What do you want?” the doe asked.

 

Adam didn’t hesitate.

“Let me fuck you.”

 

Alastor dragged a hand slowly down his face in visible exasperation.

 

“Is there literally no one else you can fuck, Adam?”

 

Adam snorted and chose not to dignify that with an answer.

 

Silence stretched. 

 

Alastor rolled his eyes.

 

He was stuck in the castle for the foreseeable future - his pieces all occupied, his plans stalled for the moment. Angel, Niffty, Husk… all busy. And so, naturally, the Fallen Angel had seized the opportunity with grasping hands and hungry eyes.

 

“Fine,” Alastor sighed at last.

 

Adam lit up instantly, eyes bright with greedy delight.

 

“You know,” Alastor added, propping himself up on his elbows, “Vox will be rather cross when he learns someone else is fucking his wife.”

 

Adam’s nostrils flared. His grin split wide and vicious.

 

His gaze dropped to Alastor’s hand.

 

To the ring.

 

The symbol of possession.

 

Alastor met his stare, eyes half-lidded now. A slow, wicked smile curving his mouth - an invitation wrapped in mockery and defiance alike.

 

Adam’s heart kicked hard in his chest at the look alone.

 

“Oh,” Adam rumbled. “Now that just makes it better.”

 

❧

Alastor balanced the cigarette between his lips, drawing deeply before pulling it away with one hand, exhaling a lazy plume of smoke that curled toward the ceiling. He lounged against the headboard, his sharp gaze drifting lazily over the room, though his focus sharpened on the man nestled between his thighs. 

 

His free hand tangled in Adam's hair, claws scraping lightly through the strands.

 

Adam's face pressed between Alastor's thighs - his long, pointed tongue buried deep in the Sinner's dripping cunt. Alastor wasn't surprised that the Alpha knew exactly how to service an Omega with his mouth; lapping at the slick heat like it was his sole purpose. 

 

A faint flush warmed Alastor's cheeks, his lips curling into a pleased grin as he looked down, watching Adam devour him.

 

Wisps of fragrant smoke drifted around them, escaping through Alastor's nostrils in a slow, satisfied exhale. He savored the patience in Adam's rhythm, the way the man lingered, tongue swirling inside to taste every inch as if reclaiming a forbidden feast after too long without.

 

With a wet, obscene pop, Adam withdrew his tongue - the flexible tip tracing slow circles around the Omega’s swollen clit. Electricity shot through him; Alastor's body tensed like a coiled spring, his clawed grip tightening in Adam's mane. 

 

A low, amused chortle rumbled from his throat. 

 

“That’s wicked,” he breathed.

 

Adam finally pulled back, a ravenous look on his face, lips shining as he met Alastor’s gaze.

 

“Mm.”

 

With playful indulgence, the Sinner offered his cigarette. The Alpha leaned in to take a slow drag before exhaling it just as lazily.

 

“And?” Alastor drawled, eyes half-lidded with amusement. “How do I taste?”

 

Adam stole the cigarette from between his claws and snuffed it out with a decisive flick before tossing it aside. His grin was sharp.

 

“Like sin.”

 

He caught hold of the Omega and guided him back onto the mattress in one fluid motion, coaxing a soft, surprised titter from the doe’s throat. 

 

Their mouths met a heartbeat later, Alastor tasting himself on Adam’s tongue as the kiss deepened, unhurried and deliberate. The Fallen Angel’s weight presses him into the soft material of the bedding, his hardened cock brushing against his thighs and teasing at his soaked folds.

 

Adam’s mouth hovered at the doe’s throat, the points of his teeth scraping lightly over the raised marks of his claiming bite. A sound of encouragement from Alastor spurred the Alpha to suckle the flesh there - until it bruised.

 

There was something deeply satisfying in the act.

 

Alastor’s breath caught, his eyes fluttering shut as pleasure bloomed beneath his skin. The intimacy of it made his heart pound with more than just desire - an act meant to serve as an open mockery of Vox’s claim. 

 

Claws roughly clamp around his thighs, parting them further with no room for protest. The sheets bunched beneath him as his body was exposed for the man’s pleasure. 

 

Alastor let his head fall back, a gasp slipping from his lips as that devilish tongue traced the still-sensitive mark forming on his neck. The sensation sent a shiver racing down his spine, his eyelids fluttering. 

 

There was no warning before Adam drove his cock into him,  the sudden stretch and the shock of fullness stealing the breath from his lungs. A low and guttural growl rumbled from the Alpha’s throat, the sound utterly animalistic as he properly mounts the Omega he’s desired for an age. 

 

The doe cried out - not in protest - but in pure, involuntary surrender. The stretch burned, sweet and sharp, dragging his spine into an arch as his body scrambled to accommodate the intrusion. The ache in his core blurred the line between pain and pleasure and now he was lost in it. 

 

Adam’s hips rolled forward again, deliberate and punishing, grinding deep until their bodies met with a sound that was all skin and need. The Alpha’s breath hitched, warm against Alastor’s throat.

 

 Each thrust came harder and deeper, the rhythm primal and merciless. 

 

“You take it so fuckin’ well,” Adam growled into his ear, his voice low and ragged. “Like this pussy was made just for me.”

 

A shudder ran through Alastor at the words. He’d claw at Adam’s back, nails raking over muscle as if to mark him back. 

 

“Then don’t stop,” he rasped, breath catching on a moan. “Break me. If you can.”

 

“Fuck, babe,” Adam grunted, reverant.  

 

Adam didn’t need to be told twice. 

 

The challenge in Alastor’s voice only ignited him further, a spark thrown onto kindling already ablaze. His pace grew wilder, hips snapping forward with an unrelenting rhythm that drove both of them toward the edge. The sound of their bodies colliding filled the room, heady and obscene, matched only by their ragged breathing and the occasional, bitten-off cry of pleasure.

 

Alastor was unraveling. Each thrust forced a new sound from his lips as pressure built low and heavy in his core. His entire body trembled, slick with sweat and muscles tensing around Adam’s cock in a desperate, greedy grip. 

 

With a sudden, sharp cry, his release overtook him - stars bursting behind his eyes as his back arched and his body clenched, milking the length buried inside him.

 

That was all it took.

 

Adam growled and slammed in one final time, burying himself to the hilt as he came. His entire body shuddered with the force of it, his hands tightening on Alastor’s thighs as he spilled inside him, thick and hot. 

 

The sensation was overwhelming. Alastor moaned at the heat flooding him, a broken, blissful sound that spoke to the satisfaction thrumming through every nerve.

 

For a moment, they didn’t move. They only breathed, tangled together in a sweat-slick heap of flesh. The room was quiet save for the hum of afterglow and their own harsh breaths. 

 

With a low, guttural groan, Adam finally withdrew, the movement slow and reluctant. His body shivered with the aftershocks, but even before he fully caught his breath, one strong arm wrapped tightly around Alastor’s waist, pulling him back into the heat of his chest. 

 

There was no room to shift - Adam made sure of that. His grip was firm, almost possessive.

 

Alastor didn’t resist. He merely exhaled a soft, ragged breath. His expression twitching into a faint grimace as he felt the slow, wet trickle of Adam’s release begin to spill from his overstimulated cunt. 

 

He'd need to clean up. Eventually.

 

But not yet.

 

For now, he let himself sink into the quiet. Adam’s nose brushed along the curve of his shoulder, then his cheek, nosing into the crook of his neck as if trying to breathe him in. 

 

❧

 

“Holy shit, Al - what the fuck happened to your neck?”

 

Angel Dust all but skidded to a halt in front of him, eyes wide as saucers. Alastor looked put together at first glance, but the illusion shattered the moment Angel really looked. Bruises bloomed dark and obvious along the column of his throat, layered over his claim mark in a way that was impossible to miss. 

 

Alastor followed his gaze with mild curiosity, claws brushing his own collar. 

 

“Mmm. We’ll say Adam became a little… excitable,” he replied lightly, shoulders lifting in a careless shrug.

 

Angel stared.

 

A beat passed.

 

Then another.

 

“A - ” he choked, composure detonating on the spot. “Holy shit. You’re fuckin’ serious.”

 

He lunged forward and grabbed Alastor by the shoulders, shaking him once - hard.

 

 “You fucked the Executioner? The big angry angel man with murder issues?! That’s what we’re doin’ now?!”

 

Alastor let himself be rattled with tolerant amusement, his grin widening as Angel spiraled.

 

“Do calm yourself, my dear,” he drawled. “You’ll vibrate right out of your skin at this rate.”

 

“Don’t you ‘my dear’ me!” Angel hissed, practically vibrating already. 

 

His eyes flicked back to the marks, then to Alastor’s face. 

 

“Those ain’t from sparrin’, Al. Those are from gettin’ manhandled six ways to Sunday.”

 

A pause.

 

Then, quieter - dangerously curious:

 

“…Did he bite you on purpose?”

 

Alastor’s smile twitched.

 

“Among other things.”

 

Angel’s jaw dropped.

 

“Details.” He tightened his grip. “All of them. Graphic. Startin’ now.”

 

Alastor laughed, eyes glinting with wicked amusement.

 

“Some things,” he purred, gently prying Angel’s hands from his shoulders, “are simply not for public broadcast - no matter how devoted the audience.”

 

Angel squinted at him, utterly unconvinced.

 

“…You’re walkin’ around with the Executioner’s love letters on your throat and expect me to just… drop it?”

 

“Temporarily,” Alastor replied, sweetly. “Yes.”

 

Angel stared another second - then groaned and dragged a hand down his face.

 

“I leave you alone for five minutes,” he muttered, “and you go and fuck a biblical nightmare.”

 

Alastor’s laugh echoed throughout the hall. 

Chapter 48: 48

Out of all of them, it was Husk who moved with the most freedom. 

 

Alastor’s movements were restricted for obvious reasons. So were Niffty’s and Angel Dust’s - the pair were targets, liabilities or possible leverage depending on who you asked. The castle was protection, but it was also a gilded cage. Every step they took beyond its walls risked stirring Vox’s attention all over again.

 

Which meant planning wasn’t a luxury.

 

It was survival.

 

Alastor was seated at the long table in Lucifer’s secondary study, claws steepled beneath his chin, eyes narrowed in quiet calculation. Maps of surrounding territories were spread before them - Husk’s old borders, the minor Overlords nestled at the fringes and the fault lines of power that most demons were too afraid to test.

 

“This would all be so much simpler,” Alastor said, “if I were allowed to simply walk out and start tearing Sinners apart.”

 

“And that,” Husk muttered from across the table, “is exactly why you ain’t allowed to just walk out.”

 

Niffty sat on the tabletop itself, kicking her heels idly as she peered down at the maps upside-down, humming thoughtfully. Angel leaned against the far edge, arms folded, expression tight with quiet anxiety rather than boredom.

 

“I don’t like this,” Angel said at last. “All this sittin’, waitin’ and whisperin’ crap. It’s got that ‘before everything goes to hell’ kinda vibe.”

 

“Astute as ever,” Alastor replied, dryly.

 

Angel sighed and pushed off the table. “I’m serious, Al. Velvette already poisoned the well. You disappeared, came back ‘wrong’, snapped on Vox in public and vanished again. To the public? That looks like a meltdown. A dangerous one - but still a meltdown.”

 

Husk’s ears flicked. “He’s right. You don’t just need power. You need consistency. Overlords don’t survive on one-off spectacle alone. They survive because people know what happens if they cross ‘em.”

 

Alastor’s smile cooled slightly. “And what, pray tell, is my reputation now?”

 

Angel didn’t hesitate.

“The Vox’s ‘hysterical wife’ narrative stuck harder than you think. Some people are scared of you - but not in the way that earns loyalty or recognition. It’s the kind of fear that makes folks keep their heads down while they wait for you to self-destruct.”

 

Niffty tilted her head. “That’s dumb. You’re scary in a cool way.”

 

“Thank you, my dear,” Alastor said, fondly. “But terror alone does not build empires. Though it is useful.”

 

Husk leaned forward, claws clicking softly against the tabletop. 

 

“Here’s the issue. Vox owns the spotlight. Velvette controls the narrative. Valentino oversees the markets. You can’t hit any one of ‘em head-on without the other two twisting the knife somewhere else.”

 

A low hum rolled from Alastor’s chest. “Then we don’t strike at them.”

 

Angel blinked. “What?”

 

“We strike at what feeds them,” Alastor clarified. “Supply lines. Lesser Overlords and high profile Sinners who serve as his sycophants. The infrastructure that props their little dynasty up.”

 

Husk’s eyes narrowed with slow interest now. “You’re talkin’ about territorial erosion.”

 

“Precisely.”

 

Angel hesitated. “And Vox?”

 

Alastor’s smile sharpened. “Vincent will feel it long before he sees it.”

 

Niffty clapped once, delighted. “Ooo, I like this part!”

 

Angel still looked unconvinced. “That might build power, sure - but it doesn’t fix your image. You still gotta prove you’re not just Vox’s runaway wife.”

 

Alastor tapped one claw lightly against the table.

 

“Unfortunately,” Alastor continued, “I must also contend with that charming little stigma my caste is saddled with. No matter how many throats I slit or Overlords I topple, there will always be those who look at me and see nothing but an Omega playing at power.”

 

His eyes flicked to Husk.

 

“So for the moment, my dear feline, the heavy lifting falls to you.”

 

Husk snorted quietly. “Yeah, I figured that part was comin’.”

 

“You’ve already begun to climb,” Alastor went on smoothly. “Middling status suits you well - temporary as it is. Your tables are fuller. Souls are changing hands at a pleasing rate. All of that feeds you. Feeds your territory. Feeds your authority. And - most importantly - it feeds your power.”

 

Angel tilted his head. “Basically… Husk gets scary first so Al doesn’t have to take the frontline heat yet.”

 

“Precisely,” Alastor said, brightly. “Once his footing is firm and his borders swell, his power will follow naturally. Rapid accumulation always accelerates ascension.”

 

Husk folded his arms. “And you stay in the shadows while I paint the target on my back.”

 

“For now,” Alastor agreed, calmly. “Think of yourself as the foundation. I will be the structure that rises afterward.”

 

Husk huffed. “You always got a real classy way of sayin’ ‘go get shot first.’”

 

A soft chuckle left Alastor. Then his expression sharpened.

 

“There is another matter,” he added. “Vox.”

 

The name drew an immediate tightening of the room.

 

“I strongly advise,” Alastor said, “that you continue to accept his requests. His little invitations. His false niceties. Let him believe you remain nothing more than a disgruntled Overlord eager to sell out his treacherous runaway wife.”

 

Husk’s ears flattened slightly. “You want me to keep playin’ spy.”

 

“Exactly so. Accept nothing from him beyond that role. No supplies. No ‘generous’ offers. No territorial ‘assistance.’ Not a single thread that could be wrapped around your throat later.”

 

Angel frowned. “You really think he’d try and buy Husk out?”

 

Alastor’s smile was razor-thin.

“My dear Angel… Vox does not negotiate. He acquires.”

 

Silence stretched.

 

Husk shifted his weight. “And when he figures out I’m not actually givin’ him anything useful?”

 

Alastor met his gaze steadily.

“By then, my dear, it will already be far too late.”

 

Niffty’s eye sparkled. “Ooo. That sounded important.”

 

“It was,” Alastor said, gently.

 

Husk exhaled slowly. “So I grow. You maintain a low profile. We bleed the little guys dry. And Vox keeps thinkin’ he’s already won.”

 

Alastor inclined his head. “A perfect summary.”

 

Angel rubbed his arms. “This is gonna get ugly.”

 

Alastor’s grin returned.

 

“Oh, my dear,” he said. “It already is.”

 

❧

 

“Hey, Al.”

 

Angel had lingered after the others dispersed, long enough for the room to empty. Alastor had just begun to turn a corner when the soft call stopped him. He looked back, ears flicking - a curious arch to his brow.

 

“Is something wrong, Angel?”

 

Angel hesitated. 

 

For once, the endless commentary fell silent. His fingers fidgeted at his sides, shoulders drawing in slightly as if he were bracing. 

 

“I was just… thinkin’,” he started, “About all this.”

 

Alastor tilted his head, patient. “Go on.”

 

Angel took a slow breath. “Is it really the best idea to do this? Any of it?” His gaze flicked away, then back. “The Overlord stuff. The fights. The whole… pokin’ the bear that is Vox with a real sharp stick?”

 

Alastor studied him for a moment before answering, his voice gentler than it had been during the meeting. 

 

“We don’t truly have many options, my dear. Neither you nor I will ever be safe so long as I remain something he believes he can simply reclaim. I need power enough that he cannot touch us without consequence. Permanent consequence.”

 

“But think about it,” Angel pressed, stepping closer now. 

 

His hands lifted, catching Alastor’s almost reflexively. His grip was warm, a little tight. 

 

“We’re safe here. Right now. You’ve got Lucifer, you’ve got protection, you’ve got -” his voice softened, hopeful, “ - me. And Niffty. And Husk.”

 

Alastor’s smile wavered at the edges.

 

“We can just… live,” Angel continued, quietly. “No broadcasts. No wars. No mess. Just… you bein’ you. Me bein’ me.”

 

Alastor’s thumbs brushed over Angel’s knuckles in a soothing, absent motion. “Sweethearted thinking,” he said. “And I truly wish it were that simple.”

 

“Can’t it be?” Angel asked, almost pleading.

 

For a moment, Alastor said nothing. When he spoke again, the showman’s lilt had softened into something bare.

 

“If I stop now then Vox doesn’t stop,” he said. “He merely bides his time until we bore of this cage and step back into his hunting grounds. You would never truly be free of him or Valentino. Neither would I. We would only be delaying the inevitable… and I refuse to spend the remainder of my existence waiting to be dragged back in chains.”

 

Angel swallowed. 

 

“But I already lost you once,” he whispered. “I don’t know if I can do that again.”

 

Alastor’s hand lifted, gently cupping Angel’s cheek. 

 

“You won’t,” he said firmly. “Not this time. I promise you that much.”

 

Angel leaned into the touch despite himself, eyes flickering shut for just a second. 

 

“You always promise things like that, Al.”

 

“Do I?” 

 

The spider offers up a tentative smile. And then it vanishes, replaced instead with a worried frown. 

 

“What if you… what if you end up mating with Adam? Or Lucifer?”

 

Alastor stiffened.

 

The shift was subtle, but Angel felt it immediately - like the air itself had pulled taut.

 

“...Whatever do you mean by that?” Alastor asked, carefully.

 

Angel swallowed, throat bobbing. 

 

“They’re Alphas. They’re strong ones. Vox wouldn’t dare challenge either of them.” His voice dipped, uneasy. “And… they don’t seem terrible. Not like Vox. They could overwrite your bond mark. Make it permanent. Make it real.”

 

There was a fragile sort of logic in his words - the desperate reasoning of someone who had lived their life measuring safety by proximity to power.

 

Alastor’s ears flattened slightly.

 

In his mind, memories surfaced unbidden: Lucifer’s easy cruelty wrapped in silk and smiles. Adam’s brutality dressed up in swagger and appetite. Ownership disguised as indulgence. Control masked as protection.

 

Dangerous men, both of them.

 

But Angel didn’t know that. Not fully.

 

“I don’t want that,” Alastor said, quietly.

 

Angel’s gaze lifted. “You don’t?”

 

“No,” he repeated, more firmly now. “Being claimed for the sake of protection is still being caged. I’ve had quite enough of that arrangement.”

 

Angel hesitated. “But… it’d keep Vox away.”

 

“I don’t disagree with that,” Alastor said. “But then I’d belong to someone else just as completely. I can’t do that again.”

 

He hadn’t told Angel Dust, Husk nor Niffty the truth of his arrangement with Lucifer. Perhaps in the future. But not now. 

 

Angel’s shoulders sagged. “I just really don’t wanna lose you again, Al.”

 

Alastor softened at that. His grip gentled, thumbs brushing slow, reassuring strokes over Angel’s hands.

 

“We’ll survive this, my dear,” he said.

 

Angel searched his face, fearful hope warring with doubt. 

 

“You really think you can pull this plan of yours off?”

 

Alastor’s smile returned - smaller than his showman’s grin, but sharper at the edges.

 

“I know I can,” he replied.

 

Angel nodded slowly, still uneasy. 

 

❧

 

Husk adjusted his yellow bowtie, eyes locked on his reflection with a faint scowl tugging at his mouth. The suit fit too well. The moment too heavy. He lifted his jaw as if to straighten the fabric again - only to freeze.

 

Hands slowly slide onto his shoulders.

 

Crimson eyes met his through the mirror, Alastor’s reflection looming close behind him, his smile faint but unmistakably intent.

 

“You’ll rival all of them before long,” Alastor purrs, his eyes partly lidded. “You’re destined for greatness, Husk.”

 

The words sank in slow and dangerous.

 

Husk drew in a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. 

 

“Am I?”

 

His left ear flicked sharply as Alastor leaned in, close enough for his breath to ghost warm along the fur there, the whisper soft and deliberate.

 

“Yes.”

 

Something ignited behind Husk’s eyes.  

 

His golden gaze sharpened, burning bright as his jaw set.

Chapter 49: 49

Baxter released a long, steadying breath as he leaned back from the bank of screens.

 

Alastor was both predictable and utterly inscrutable - an infuriating contradiction wrapped in red. Baxter’s official designation had once been limited to maintaining the network alone. Now, thanks to Vox’s steadily deteriorating temper, that workload had expanded to include direct involvement in the so-called rescue effort.

 

Both Angel Dust and Alastor were missing.

 

And the Vees - for lack of a better term - were losing their collective shit.

 

Without the stabilizing presence of their Omegas, something had curdled within them. Their behavior had grown sharper. There was a bitterness woven deep into their scents now. The violence had spiked accordingly. Employee deaths were no longer isolated incidents; they were becoming routine.

 

No one lingered in the halls anymore. No one spoke unless spoken to. Everyone moved with care. 

 

They had no choice.

 

To falter was to become an example.

 

Baxter rubbed thoughtfully at his chin as the footage continued to play in fractured, looping segments across the monitors. 

 

Velvette had been relentless - every sliver of data routed through to him the moment it surfaced. Grainy crowd shots. Flickers of suspicious movement. Unverified “sightings.” Nothing was too insignificant to be flagged.

 

It was an overwhelming amount of information.

 

And somehow, still not enough.

 

There had been nothing concrete on Angel Dust.

 

Which meant that Alastor was ensuring the Omega stayed well out of sight.

 

That alone was revealing.

 

The information revealed by their respective chips succeeded somewhat. Enough to paint a vague picture.

 

The trail did not lead through Pentagram City proper.

 

It led elsewhere.

 

Morningstar Castle.

 

That single realization complicated everything.

 

If Lucifer chose to extend his protection beyond the outer walls of his domain, then the Vees would gain nothing but humiliation for their efforts. They would be locked out completely. Powerless.

 

But if Alastor merely sought temporary refuge within the King’s territory then there might yet be an opportunity.

 

A narrow one.

 

They would need to tag him again.

 

The original tracking device had been designed for a compliant Omega - one who could not destabilize their own physical form. Alastor had possessed no such abilities at the time of implantation. The hardware simply wasn’t built to accommodate whatever he had become.

 

Any new chip would need to be stronger. More invasive. 

 

And the problem wasn’t engineering.

 

It was access.

 

Alastor was no mindless creature to be restrained and tagged without consequence. Forcing a device into him now would require either total incapacitation - or deception on a level so precise that even Baxter struggled to imagine it succeeding.

 

Until then, they were blind.

 

Bound to scraps of corrupted data and fleeting pings that meant nothing by the time they arrived.

 

Baxter exhaled slowly.

 

What they had wasn’t good.

 

Not by a long shot.

 

He  removed his spectacles and buried his face into his gloved hands and released a quiet, miserable sigh. 

 

❧

 

Alastor took a measured sip from his elegantly designed flask before sealing it once more and slipping it neatly into a concealed pocket.

 

He never drank from a glass poured in public. That was simply an invitation to be drugged. If he indulged at all, it was always from his own supply - most often within the relative safety of Husk’s gambling dens or the scattered bars that had begun to quietly favor him.

 

He enjoyed these outings.

 

They were liberating.

 

Danger still coiled beneath every step, but it was his risk now. His choice. He could go where he wished, linger where he pleased - and that alone was intoxicating.

 

He had also become… recognizable.

 

Betas and Alphas alike hovered at the edges of his orbit, vying for a sliver of his attention. It was all rather amusing, from his perspective.

 

At present, he sat across from a reptilian Sinner at the table. Yellow, predatory eyes flicked between the cards in his hand and Alastor’s composed expression.

 

“Prettier up close, ain’t ya?” the man drawled.

 

Alastor didn’t look up as he balanced a cigarette between his claws, eyes still on his hand.
 

“Are you implying I’m hideous from a distance?”

 

“Nah, nah,” the Sinner chuckled. “Just… different. I’m used to seein’ you on posters. Or hearin’ you on the radio.”

 

“A listener?” Alastor purred, pleasantly. “How flattering.”

 

The Sinner shifted, clearly emboldened by the attention.

“So - uh - what’s really goin’ on with you an’ that husband of yours? He’s been actin’ real outta sorts since you… flew the coop.”

 

Alastor flicked ash neatly into the tray, unbothered.

“Merely a marital dispute,” he replied lightly. “My husband is prone to… moods.”

 

The reptilian gaze drifted to the ring still circling Alastor’s finger.

 

“Is that why you ran?” the reptilian Sinner pressed. “Because of his moods?”

 

“More or less,” Alastor replied, smoothly.

 

The man leaned back in his chair, studying him with open curiosity.

“What - he beat you or somethin’?”

 

Alastor’s smile didn’t falter.

“Mm. We simply reached a… fundamental disagreement regarding the terms of our marriage.”

 

The alligator’s gaze strayed toward the Omega’s exposed throat.

 

Bruised. But in an intimate way. 

 

“My eyes are up here, darling,” Alastor said, mildly.

 

A crooked grin pulled at the Sinner’s mouth.

“Hey, I was just sayin’. Kinda hard not to notice, what with talk of beatings and all.”

 

“From your mouth, not mine,” Alastor replied lightly.

 

The reptilian Sinner clicked his tongue, yellow eyes narrowing with renewed interest.

“Still… can’t help but get the impression you’re still pretty active, even with all that ‘marital dispute’ business.”

 

Alastor hummed, smoke curling from his lips.

“Perhaps.”

 

“Omegas have heats,” the Sinner went on, voice lowering. “Yours already pass? Or is it comin’ up?”

 

One brow arched.

“Interested?”

 

A rough bark of laughter answered him.

“I ain’t got a death wish,” the man said. Then, after a beat, his grin turned crooked. “But apparently somebody out there might for touchin’ you.”

 

❧

 

That conversation had been recorded.

 

Baxter could still recall the exact moment the realization set in -  the slow, nauseating dread that twisted through his gut once the truth became unavoidable. 

 

Someone had touched Alastor.

 

Someone who wasn’t Vox - or Valentino - or… 

 

It wasn’t only audio, either. 

 

It had been paired with fragmented video and a scattering of still photos that left far too much to the imagination while somehow confirming everything all the same.

 

The Omega had been showing off.

 

Deliberately.

 

It was there in what he chose to wear; the strategic cuts of fabric, the way his collar sat just low enough and the careless exposure of skin that wasn’t careless at all. It was in how he angled himself toward the lenses. And then there were the looks - the brief, knowing glances he cast straight into the fucking cameras. 

 

The faint curl of his mouth. The subtle tilt of his chin.

 

As if daring anyone watching to deny what they were seeing.

 

As if inviting them to draw the only conclusion that mattered.

 

❧

 

“That fucking whore!”

 

Vox’s outburst cut sharp through the room.

 

Valentino, in stark contrast, collapsed into a fit of raucous laughter, entirely unbothered by the fury detonating beside him. Velvette, meanwhile, scowled fiercely at the glowing displays. 

 

She searched relentlessly for any sign that this had spread beyond the inner circle - beyond those who worked directly beneath them. Any confirmation that the rot had already reached farther than it should have.

 

If the footage and audio leaked publicly… it could swing either way.

 

It could paint the Omega as a shameless harlot - if Alastor even cared how such a label clung to him - and cast Vox as a pitiable figure, a poor wronged husband humiliated in full view of Hell.

 

But it could just as easily do far worse.

 

It could brand Vox as a man incapable of controlling his own wife.

 

And that… that was a far more dangerous narrative.

 

The truth was, however, impossible to ignore.

 

Alastor was doing this on purpose.

 

Every frame, every little angle and every coy exposure was deliberate. A provocation. A calculated insult dressed up as scandal.

 

“He’s going to pay for this,” Vox snarled, his voice crackling with raw, unstable fury. 

 

The screens around him jittered in response. 

 

“He thinks he can just run off and fuck someone else? Does he?”

 

Valentino lounged back, inspecting his nails with lazy disdain.

“I do find myself wondering who’d even be willing,” he mused. “Especially with the cervato’s reputation.” A slow grin tugged at his mouth. “Pretty little thing, sure - but I wonder if he’s actually worth the risk.”

 

Velvette cut in coolly, not looking up from her tablet.
 

“His heat’s due in a few months, Vox. We get him back before then, or you’re waiting another full year for a clean opportunity.”

 

“I know that,” Vox snapped, static rippling violently across the monitors. “Don’t patronize me, Vel.”

 

Valentino’s eyes flicked up, bright with idle malice.

“So what’re the odds our runaway deer ends up knocked up by someone else?”

 

“I don’t fucking know, Val,” Vox shot back. “About the same odds as your spider.”

 

The room went still.

 

Valentino turned slowly, fixing him with a withering, murderous look.

❧

 

“Ya really think it’s the best idea to go out like that?” Angel drawled, eyes flicking pointedly toward Alastor’s throat.

 

Alastor lifted a brow, delicately spearing a bite of meat with his fork.

“However do you mean, Angel?”

 

“You’ve got your neck on full damn display,” Angel said, flatly. “And those marks haven’t faded at all - wait.” His eyes narrowed. “Don’t tell me you’ve been lettin’ him fuck you - like - more than once?”

 

Alastor hummed softly, clearly amused as he swallowed.
 

“We have a bit of an arrangement. It isn’t altogether unpleasant.”

 

Angel stared at him in disbelief.

 

“Fuck, Al.”

 

They sat amid trimmed hedges and blooming hell-flowers, sunlight glinting off porcelain plates and crystal glasses. The meal was light and consisted of thin slices of meat, roasted vegetables and fruits. For a moment, it was just them.

 

Angel picked at his food, glancing up at Alastor again.

“You know he ain’t subtle, right? Anyone with eyes can see you’re bein’ fucked in a literal sense. That’s… dangerous. And it’s not exactly the best way to stay ‘low profile’ either.”

 

Alastor dabbed his lips with a napkin, gaze half-lidded.

“Danger has always followed me, my dear.”

 

Before Angel could snap back, a heavy presence cut through the garden’s quiet.

 

The massive shape of Adam rounded the corner, wings partially unfurled, crimson gaze locking immediately onto the pair.

 

“Hey,” he greeted, plain and unapologetic.

 

“Adam,” Alastor replied smoothly, unfazed.

 

Angel immediately averted his gaze with a polite dip of his head, shoulders tense. The Fallen Angel unnerved him. 

 

Adam’s eyes flicked between them, then settled possessively on Alastor.

“Gonna need to borrow your spider, babe.”

 

Alastor’s fingers paused on his glass. His polite smile thinned.

“And why is that?”

 

“Lucifer wants a word with him.”

 

The shift was subtle - but immediate.

Alastor’s ears flattened just slightly, a tell Angel had learned to recognize.

 

Angel’s stomach twisted.

 

“Oh,” Angel murmured, suddenly nervous. “That sounds… bad.”

 

Chapter 50: 50

Alastor rose abruptly from his seat, the nearly finished meal forgotten as Adam’s words settled over the table like a verdict. The movement was sharp enough that Angel startled. The warmth that usually lived behind the doe’s eyes drained away, leaving something cold and glassy in its wake.

 

“And what,” Alastor asked, quietly, “would Lucifer want with Angel?”

 

Adam slowly lifted his head. The expression molded into the rigid set of his mask flattened completely.

 

“Ain’t any of my business, doll,” he replied, evenly. “Ain’t none of yours, either.”

 

Alastor’s jaw tightened. “I disagree. Angel is my business.”

 

Adam’s laugh was short and humorless. 

 

“Lucifer’s authority trumps that shit. And you fuckin’ know it. Don’t pretend like either of you have a choice here.”

 

Alastor’s hands curled at his sides. 

 

“Then if he requires Angel’s company - I will be present.”

 

Adam barked out a laugh this time, loud and mocking. 

 

“He asked for Angel. Not you, babe. So how about you sit your ass down.”

 

For the briefest instant, true outrage cracked through Alastor’s carefully curated smile. His scent spiked, betraying the instinctive hostility he could no longer fully mask.

 

Adam lifted his gaze in full, looming over him.

 

“Sit. Down.”

 

Alastor didn’t move.

 

His ears flattened hard against his skull. His shadow writhed against the floor at his feet, stretching and recoiling like something alive. His body was taut with resistance.

 

“I said - ”

 

Adam stepped closer.

 

The shift in him was immediate and suffocating. The Alpha’s presence swelled outward, dense and crushing. His voice dropped into a low, vibrating growl that crawled straight up the spine.

 

Angel’s breath hitched violently.

 

Something slammed into his mind.

 

It wasn’t a thought. It wasn’t a voice. It was a command - raw and ancient. It tore past reason and logic and sank straight into the lowest, ugliest parts of his brain.

 

Submit.

 

His hands started shaking uncontrollably. His vision blurred at the edges. He was grateful that he was already seated, because his legs had gone weak. If he’d been standing, he would have dropped to his knees without thinking.

 

Submit - submit - submit - 

 

What the fuck was this?

 

It bored into him, bypassing will entirely and dragged obedience out of him whether he wanted it or not. His teeth chattered softly as he forced himself to resist falling forward off the chair.

 

“…sit down.”

 

He forced his eyes upward.

 

Alastor was still standing.

 

Barely.

 

His expression was distorted - eyes wide, smile shaking violently at the edges. His entire body was rigid, muscles locked as if trying to physically brace against something invisible and crushing. His claws were clenched into fists at his sides. A strangled sound tore free from his throat as he tried to speak.

 

Then, inch by inch, he moved.

 

The motion was agonizingly slow. Like he was being dragged downward against his will rather than choosing it. His knees trembled as he lowered himself back into the chair.

 

The moment he was seated, the tension didn’t vanish - it simply collapsed inward.

 

Sweat beaded along his brow. His head bowed forward, shoulders tight and his breaths shallow and uneven.

 

Adam straightened.

 

His attention snapped to Angel next.

 

“Up.”

 

Angel flinched violently - but obeyed. He rose on shaking legs, balance unsteady and arms held stiff at his sides. 

 

“Get movin’.”

 

Angel took an involuntary step forward.

 

Then Adam’s glare cut back to Alastor. 

 

“And you,” he snarled, “stop fuckin’ around. You know how shit works around here. So don’t pretend otherwise.”

 

Alastor didn’t answer.

 

His eyes slid shut instead, his expression shuttered in brittle, humiliated silence.

 

❧

Angel Dust kept his gaze trained on the floor as he followed behind Adam without hesitation. His many hands were folded neatly before him, fingers interlaced with practiced precision. He was the picture of composure - an Omega falling seamlessly back into old habits the moment he found himself beneath the Executioner’s shadow.

 

Obedient and quiet. 

 

And yet his thoughts were far from steady.

 

They clung stubbornly to the doe he’d been forced to leave behind.

 

Worry gnawed at the edges of his mind, fraying his concentration with every step. He wanted to break from Adam’s side and return to Alastor. That familiar, warm spice of his scent had been corrupted by distress; warped into something sharp and wrong. 

 

Angel had seen that look on Alastor’s face before.

 

There had been moments when Alastor and Vox had clashed behind closed doors. Their arguments grew heated, voices sharpened into cruel edges, power bristling in the air between them. Angel had always assumed that sort of friction was simply part of marriage. Ugly, perhaps - but survivable.

 

Except this had been different.

 

There had been something else beneath Alastor’s expression this time. Something deeper than anger. Deeper than pride.

 

Helplessness.

 

The kind that sank into the bones and stayed there.

 

And now - it couldn’t be resisted at all.

 

Not here.

 

This world had been built to grind them down. To strip choice from them piece by piece until submission felt inevitable. Their classifications only made it worse. Made the cruelty sharper. 

 

They were Omegas.

 

Suffering was woven into the very fabric of their existence.

 

Through their heats.

Through their bonds.

Through their place in society.

Through the way they were owned in life - and still owned in death.

 

There was no escape from it.

 

No angle from which to outrun it.

 

Inescapable.

 

It was agonizing to witness Alastor suffer like this.

 

They had already been cast down into the literal pits of Hell. Condemned to a world built on cruelty, hierarchy and endless punishment. And yet even that had not been enough. This new torment was being layered atop an already crushing heap of expectation and rigid cultural law, the silent rules that dictated what Omegas were allowed to be and how much pain they were expected to endure without protest.

 

But the doe had never been content with quiet endurance.

 

Alastor persevered.

 

He fought.

 

He refused to sink gracefully into the shape the world demanded of him. He did not bow his head easily. He did not suffer prettily. Instead, he resisted with teeth bared and spirit blazing. A violent streak of bright crimson slashed across the dull, suffocating tapestry of existence.

 

Angel was terrified that one day that color would fade.

 

That the relentless pressure would finally grind him down into something dim and hollow. That the fire inside him would be broken until only a pale, obedient reflection remained - beautiful, perhaps, but empty.

 

The thought made Angel’s chest ache.

 

That spark was why he loved him.

 

Not even decades spent beneath the yoke of the Vees had managed to extinguish it. They had suppressed it - but they had never truly destroyed it.

 

And even now… it was still there.

 

Burning.

 

Something inside him pulsed with a quiet, illicit kind of desire.

 

It was the sort that had no real place in the ordered brutality of the afterlife. A longing that was seldom acknowledged between Omegas at all. They were too few. Too tightly regulated. To desire another Omega was considered inefficient at best. A waste, at worst. Their bodies were meant for Alphas. Their bonds were meant for hierarchy.

 

Anything else was treated like novelty.

 

Allowed only as spectacle.

 

Such affection was indulged in the way one indulged a fantasy. Something to be consumed through film, through voyeurism and through implication. A curated illusion meant for the entertainment of others. But never something to be taken seriously. Never something that lasted. Never something allowed to become real.

 

That kind of devotion was reserved for Betas - neutral enough to be ignored. And it was tolerated among Alphas, framed as dominance play or conquest or even indulgence.

 

But for Omegas?

 

It was discouraged and ridiculed. 

 

They were not meant to turn toward one another for longing. They were not meant to build tenderness between equal vulnerability. They were meant to be claimed - not to choose.

 

And yet… here he was.

 

Wanting Alastor in a way that had nothing to do with cycles or submission or spectacle. Wanting him for the defiance in his spine. For the burn of his spirit. For the way he refused to become small even when the world demanded it.

 

Angel knew better than to mistake that kind of feeling for something safe.

 

It wasn’t safe.

 

It was fragile. And if Angel ever truly committed to that desire he was painfully aware that it could only end in tragedy. Nothing this soft ever survived intact in a world like theirs. Not for long.

 

Alastor was beautiful.

 

Not just in the way pretty things were admired from a distance - but in the way rare things were coveted. 

 

He was special.

 

And the Alphas in his life all knew it.

 

Vox knew it.

Adam knew it.

Valentino knew it.

Even Lucifer knew it.

 

They all fucking knew it.

They saw the value in him. The power in his defiance. The allure of a spirit that refused to lie down quietly. Each of them wanted a piece of that brilliance.

 

And then there was Angel.

 

How was he meant to compare to that?

 

How did an Omega measure himself against Overlords, an Executioner and a King?

 

What could he possibly offer Alastor in a world that only respected power  and dominance?

 

He had nothing.

 

Omegas were not meant to own things. Not truly. They held no territory. No legacy. No inheritance that was ever fully theirs. Anything that bore their name was only on loan - gifted, assigned and revocable at a moment’s notice.

 

Even their bodies were not fully their own.

 

So what was he supposed to give Alastor?

 

Love didn’t count as currency here.

Devotion didn’t buy safety.

Wanting didn’t build walls strong enough to protect anyone.

 

And yet - despite knowing all of this -...

 

Angel still wanted him.

 

He wanted him with a desperation that left him breathless.

 

Not the sharp, consuming hunger of heat. Not the instinctive craving burned into his body by design. This was something heavier. Something that settled deep in his chest and made it ache.

 

Angel Dust wanted to spend an eternity at Alastor’s side.

 

Even if he was nothing more than a footnote in the doe’s life. He would accept that. Gladly. As long as he could stay close. Close enough to brush fingers by accident. Close enough to hear his voice without strain. Close enough to exist in the same orbit.

 

Close enough to love him in whatever way Alastor might be willing to allow.

 

Even if that love was never returned.

Even if it had to remain unspoken.

Even if it cost him everything.

 

A soft, startled gasp slipped from his lips as the towering doors of the Throne Room began to part.

 

The sound echoed too loudly in the hush.

 

Angel’s gaze snapped forward at once, his thoughts violently dragged back into the present.

 

The King awaited.

Chapter 51: 51

Angel Dust drew in a steadying breath as Adam finally stepped aside. The Executioner’s crimson gaze lingered upon him.

 

The Omega moved.

 

His steps were light and measured  - each one placed with exacting care, the perfect balance between obedience and dignity. His face remained lowered, chin dipped and gaze fixed respectfully upon the polished floor.

 

His heart thundered violently within his chest, roaring loud enough that he swore it would give him away. But outwardly, he was calm. Every inch the practiced courtier.

 

When he reached a respectful distance from the throne, Angel sank smoothly into prostration. The motion was precise and graceful. All four palms pressed flat against the floor. His forehead followed, resting against the cold surface in flawless submission.

 

Silence followed.

 

He could feel the King's attention settle over him with crushing clarity. 

 

“You may raise your head and look upon me, Angel Dust.”

 

The command unfurled through him.

 

Angel slowly lifted himself, settling back onto his knees. His hands clasped neatly before him as if in quiet prayer. He lifted his gaze just enough to meet Lucifer’s form.

 

“Your Majesty.”

 

“You have cultivated quite the reputation for yourself,” Lucifer said, smoothly. “Your mark upon the adult entertainment industry is… indelible. Any soul with even the most passing taste for such indulgences knows your name. Knows your work.”

 

Angel’s lips trembled faintly.

 

“Y - you flatter me, Your Majesty.”

 

Lucifer merely hummed.

 

He lounged in divine leisure, one elbow resting upon the gilded arm of his throne, his perfect face propped lightly against a curled fist. The picture of relaxed supremacy. A king utterly unthreatened by those who knelt before him.

 

“I am also aware of your relationship with Alastor,” Lucifer continued. “You were companions for no less than two decades. You worked alongside one another. True crossovers were rare, of course - but you shared the spotlight in other ways.”

 

His fingers shifted, idly tracing the line of his own cheek as though in idle contemplation.

 

“As your kind are wont to do, you formed a bond. Prolonged proximity shaped attachment. Familiarity became… significant.” 

 

His gaze sharpened. 

 

“And before that bond had the chance to fully crystallize, you chose to risk a great deal in order to aid him.”

 

Angel said nothing.

 

“You will tell me why.”

 

Angel swallowed hard. He drew in another slow breath before answering.

 

“He needed help,” the Omega said, quietly. “He was scared.”

 

Lucifer gave a soft, amused laugh.

 

“Scared,” he echoed. “Childbirth is a natural function. Painful, certainly. But suffering is within your nature. You were built to endure it.”

 

“I had to help him, Your Majesty,” Angel insisted, trembling just slightly now. “I - I didn’t want him to suffer like that. I couldn’t just watch when I had a way to stop it.”

 

Lucifer’s gaze cooled further.

 

“Were you truly so convinced that Alastor lacked the strength to endure motherhood?” he asked. “He was not without assistance. He had more than enough support.”

 

“But it wasn’t what he wanted,” Angel said, desperately. “It was his body. It’s all he had. It’s all any of us ever really have.”

 

Lucifer studied him in silence for a moment.

 

“So,” he said at last, “you decided he should be permitted sovereignty over himself. How… very modern of you.”

 

A pause followed. 

 

“Unfortunately, you are mistaken.”

 

The temperature in the room seemed to drop.

 

“The moment Alastor married Vox, his body became property,” Lucifer continued, evenly. “You both defied the natural order. In doing so, you deprived a man of legacy.” 

 

His eyes gleamed faintly.

 

“In the eyes of many, you committed a crime. And a heinous one at that.”

 

Angel’s breath left him in a soft, unsteady exhale.

 

“And you were punished for it,” Lucifer said. “Were you not?”

 

“Y-Yes, Your Majesty,” Angel whispered. “I was punished.”

 

“And it was deserved,” Lucifer said, calmly. “Wasn’t it?”

 

Angel hesitated.

 

His fingers tightened together, his hands trembling faintly.

 

“I… it ain’t - ”

 

The words tangled in his throat. He drew in a sharp breath and forced himself to steady it, spine straightening as resolve hardened through the fear.

 

“I don’t regret what I did,” he said, quietly. “I don’t regret keepin’ him safe.”

 

There was an edge to his voice now. His eyes squeezed shut as though bracing for impact.

 

“Oh?” Lucifer murmured.

 

“I was the only one who cared about how he felt,” Angel said, the words spilling faster despite himself. “No one else did. No one.”

 

The last of it escaped as a rough whisper, torn straight from his chest.

 

“He trusted me,” Angel continued, hoarsely. “Trusted me enough to try. And I did it because we were all each other had. We understood what it felt like.”

 

“To be Omegas?” Lucifer asked smoothly, one brow lifting in faint, detached curiosity.

 

“Yes.”

 

Angel’s eyes burned as he forced them open again, wet but unbroken.

 

“No one understands what it’s like - what it’s really like - to be this but us,” he said. “Not Vox. Not Valentino. Not even you.”

 

The words hung in the air - small yet dangerously defiant.

 

“It appears Alastor’s spirit is… infectious,” Lucifer replied, thoughtfully. “I had half-expected you to be something broken by now. A hollow thing.” 

 

His gaze lingered on Angel with cool appraisal. 

 

“How interesting you are, Angel Dust. There is an undercurrent of steel in you that I did not anticipate.”

 

Angel met his gaze.

 

He trembled but his jaw remained set, his spine rigid with stubborn resolve.

 

He did not look away.

 

“Do you know why I’ve taken Alastor in?” Lucifer asked, idly.

 

“No, Your Majesty.”

 

“It is because I have developed a personal interest in his… development,” Lucifer replied. “He is spirited. Unruly. Luminous in a way few souls ever are.” 

 

A slow, indulgent pause followed. 

 

“And his soul - my - it is utterly radiant.”

 

Unease coiled sharply in his gut as he caught the faint, unnatural gleam in the King’s gaze. It was not admiration. Not even simple desire.

 

It was something deeper.

 

Darker than anything he had ever seen in the eyes of even the most depraved Sinner.

 

“I am quite certain you are wondering,” Lucifer said smoothly, “why - if I am so fond of Alastor - I do not intervene on his behalf.”

 

Angel hesitated, then gave a faint, careful nod.

 

“There is,” Lucifer continued, his tone almost indulgent, “nothing more delightful than witnessing him struggle against the inevitable pull of the tide.” 

 

His gaze drifted, distant and amused. 

 

“This Sisyphean devotion to defiance. This exhausting insistence on resisting the natural order of Hell, of Heaven and of the living world alike.”

 

A soft breath left him - almost a laugh.

 

“No matter what bargains he strikes,” Lucifer said, calmly. “No matter how vast his power becomes. No matter how many souls he bends beneath his will… he is still fated to suffer.”

 

The word landed with finality.

 

“And watching him fight that truth,” the King concluded, “is infinitely more satisfying than sparing him from it.”

 

Angel trembled where he knelt, his eyes burning as grief gathered and swelled behind them. It was fear - for Alastor’s fate, for his stolen happiness and for everything that had already been taken and everything that was still to come.

 

“Do you truly believe,” Lucifer asked, softly, “that he is worthy of your pity, Angel Dust? Truly worthy?”

 

Angel’s hands unclasped at last. One lifted shakily to his face, wiping uselessly at his eye as a tear escaped despite his effort to contain it. His shoulders shook faintly.

 

“I -...”

 

“Are you… aware that he is in Hell, Angel?” Lucifer pressed, his voice gliding effortlessly into mockery. “Do you fully comprehend that you are in Hell as well?”

 

His tone lifted - only slightly.

 

But it was enough to make Angel flinch.

 

“Several dozen,” the King said, calmly.

 

Angel’s breath hitched. “W - what?”

 

“He killed several dozen men,” Lucifer repeated, evenly.

 

The words settled with brutal weight.

 

“He killed them,” Lucifer continued, calmly. “Cut them to pieces. Devoured them.” 

 

He leaned forward, interest glinting beneath the polish of his gaze. 

 

“He desecrated what remained and left the remnants of their corpses to rot where they fell.”

 

Angel’s breath shuddered.

 

“He left families hollowed out in his wake,” the King went on. “Sons. Brothers. Fathers. Cousins. Nephews. Alphas and Betas alike - some innocent and destined for Heaven… others damned to Hell the moment their blood hit the dirt.”

 

Then Lucifer laughed.

 

It was sharp.

Cruel.

 

The sound rang through the throne room. 

 

“Oh, this is delightful,” he said with mocking amusement. “Everyone - and I do mean everyone - forgets that part, don’t they?”

 

His gaze speared into Angel.

 

“You are all here for a reason,” Lucifer said, coolly. “Do you believe Alastor to be innocent? That he is undeserving of this torment?”

 

He tilted his head.

 

“Do you imagine that you are innocent, Angel Dust?” Lucifer’s voice purred. “That you are deserving of pity?”

 

The question hung in the air. 

 

“I - I - ”

 

Angel’s vision blurred as tears welled and spilled over. He could barely see past them now, the throne room dissolving into streaks of light and shadow.

 

“He’s not - I’m not - I - ”

 

“Enough.”

 

The single word cracked through the space. 

 

Angel’s mouth shut instantly.

 

Lucifer regarded him with cool finality. 

 

“I have heard enough.” 

 

He shifted slightly against his throne, resting back into divine ease once more. 

 

“You may remain a companion to him. I have no intention of casting you aside.” 

 

A faint pause. 

 

“I possess some measure of mercy.”

 

Angel stilled.

 

“Comfort him,” Lucifer continued. “Ease him along his inevitable path. It is all you are truly capable of. You’re absolutely fucking useless otherwise.”

 

The word struck harder than a blow.

 

Angel flinched visibly.

 

Silence stretched. Then, slowly, he folded back into proper form - dipping into a trembling, reverent bow.

 

“T–Thank you, Your Majesty,” he whispered.

 

“Right,” Lucifer replied, lazily. “You may leave.”

 

And just like that, Angel Dust was dismissed. 

Chapter 52: 52

Angel Dust curled tightly against him, burying his face into the soft curve of Alastor’s cheek. His usual sweet, heady scent had soured - twisted into something achingly familiar. 

 

It was not the first time he had held him like this.

 

There had been other nights across their shared history when Angel had come undone in his arms. Nights when Valentino’s cruelty had been especially vicious; when the spider had arrived trembling and brittle, seeking nothing but warmth and quiet. They had pressed close then too, sharing breath and scent and the fragile comfort of not being alone.

 

Tonight felt painfully similar.

 

In the wake of this latest ordeal, Angel had simply folded into him, shaking and eyes bright with unshed tears. Alastor had felt the questions rise in his throat but he swallowed them down. This was not the moment for answers. This was the moment for comfort.

 

So he held him.

 

They lay together atop the soft sheets of the bed. Though Angel had his own assigned quarters, they often ended up here when neither could bear solitude. When Adam was not claiming him. When the world felt too sharp at the edges.

 

They were easy with one another like this.

 

Skin to skin. Quiet breathing. The mingling of spice and sweetness between them. 

 

Valentino and Vox had mocked it once, remarking that the two of them created the most “addictive perfume” when they lay together like this. Something meant to be degrading. Something meant to cheapen the tenderness of it.

 

Alastor chose not to remember that part.

 

For him, the closeness dulled the world into background noise. It anchored him. 

 

“How about a bath, my dear?” Alastor murmured at last. “It’ll be just us. No servants. No interruptions.”

 

Angel answered with a small nod. The simple motion drew a rare, tender smile from the doe in return.

 

❧

 

The imps guided them into a shared bath designed to accommodate multiple guests. A wide, tiled basin cut neatly into the stone floor. Steam curled lazily along its surface, the water already prepared and fragrant with faint traces of neutral cleanser. It was spacious enough to be indulgent, but not cavernous. And close enough that neither of them would be left adrift.

 

They ensured the proper products were provided - soft cloths, combs, oils and soaps chosen carefully for fur rather than skin. Nothing overwhelming. Nothing perfumed heavily enough to drown out what made them them.

 

Once they were alone, the quiet settled around them.

 

They shed their clothing without ceremony. When they slipped into the bath, it was slow and careful, the heat enveloping them inch by inch. Angel shuddered faintly at the first contact, tension easing from his shoulders as the warmth sank in.

 

For a few moments, neither of them spoke.

 

Then the ritual began.

 

Hands moved unhurriedly through damp fur. Soap was worked into gentle lather, palms passing over shoulders and arms and back with steady pressure. Alastor worked through Angel’s fur with practiced care, claws deft and precise as he loosened tangles and smoothed knots. Angel returned the attention in kind. 

 

The soap was purposefully neutral, allowing their natural scents to remain present. Sweet and spice mingled softly as their fur regained its luster beneath the water.

 

After a while, Alastor finally spoke.

 

“Are you alright?” he asked softly, blinking against the drifting steam.

 

Angel paused, cloth stilled briefly in his hands.

 

“I’ll be fine,” he said after a moment. “I’ve dealt with… worse.” 

 

His shoulders rose and fell in a small breath. 

 

“I guess it’s ‘cause it was Lucifer that it really… got to me. Y’know?”

 

Alastor’s hands slowed, fingers resting a moment longer at Angel’s shoulders.

 

“He is the devil, darling,” he replied, gently. “He has never been known for warmth or mercy.”

 

Angel huffed faintly, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.

 

“Yeah… guess I shoulda remembered that.”

 

Alastor resumed his careful grooming, thumbs tracing slow, grounding circles through damp fur.

 

“You survived him,” he said. “That is no small thing.”

 

“…Yeah.”

 

They rinsed carefully after that, taking their time to ensure every trace of soap was washed from flesh and fur alike. Warm water coursed over them in steady sheets, carrying away the last clinging remnants of stress with it. 

 

Before long, the tension that had curled so tightly through Angel’s frame finally began to ebb.

 

He drifted closer without thinking, settling back against Alastor’s chest with a quiet, contented sigh. The doe’s warmth was steady and reassuring behind him. Alastor’s claws traced gently down Angel’s side, slow and careful. 

 

A surprised giggle burst from Angel’s throat, cutting through the lingering heaviness.

 

“I’m ticklish there, Al,” he tittered. “You know that.”

 

“Do I?” Alastor replied teasingly, the faint lilt of amusement threading through his voice.

 

“Mmm.”

 

Angel tilted his head just enough to peek up at him - a sweet, unguarded smile curling across his face. 

 

And for a little while longer, the world stayed quiet.

 

“Al?”

 

“Yes, my Angel?”

 

“….”

 

Angel didn’t speak again.

 

Instead, he moved - slowly. Carefully. Every inch of the motion was telegraphed in advance, giving Alastor ample time to pull away if he wished. When Angel finally leaned in, Alastor’s gaze flickered with quiet surprise just as Angel’s mouth brushed against his own.

 

The kiss was soft.

 

Unhurried.

 

Nothing rushed or demanding about it. Just the gentle press of warm lips seeking reassurance rather than ownership. And in that fragile contact, Alastor became suddenly, achingly aware of how tender Angel truly was. Of how much care lived in that simple gesture.

 

Angel’s scent and presence wrapped around him like something kind. Like safety. Like an embrace that asked nothing more than permission to exist there.

 

After a moment’s hesitation, Alastor returned the kiss.

 

It was tentative at first before he allowed himself to sink into it fully. For just that brief span of time, he let everything else fall away. The weight of expectation. The endless, grinding presence of power pressing in from all sides.

 

There was something about this that felt different.

 

It was nothing like Vox.

Nor like Adam.

 

There was no dominance braided into the gesture. No hunger for control. No consuming need to take and take until nothing remained. It wasn’t a claim nor a victory.

 

It was mutual.

 

Angel’s hands lifted to cradle his face, warm and trembling where they cupped his cheeks. A soft, broken sound slipped from his throat - not born of demand, but of feeling too much all at once. Too much relief. Too much tenderness. Too much fear finally given a place to rest.

 

And Alastor stayed.

 

He simply let himself be held there with him as the steam curled around them and the world, for a heartbeat, forgot how to hurt them.

 

❧

 

Alastor sat before the vanity in his chamber, eyes fixed on his own reflection.

 

The room was quiet. 

 

Too quiet.

 

He and Angel had parted warmly - soft words, lingering touches and the hush of something shared that neither had daring to name aloud. And yet the comfort of that moment had curdled into a slow, tightening coil of anxiety in his gut the instant he’d been alone.

 

The fear came subtly at first. Then all at once.

 

What if someone had seen?

 

The thought burrowed deep, relentless. Hell did not miss much and it forgave even less. The memory of Niffty rose unbidden to the surface of his mind. Of how she had been weaponized against him without mercy. 

 

Affection was leverage here.

 

He never intended for whatever this was between them to be visible. This concealment was not shame - it was protection. The only kind he had left to offer.

 

For Angel’s sake.

 

Their moments would stay theirs alone. 

 

His lips still tingled faintly.

 

The taste of Angel lingered there - soft and sweet. A trace of warmth that had no business surviving in a world built on extraction and cruelty. His claws lifted slowly, passing gingerly over his mouth.

 

If he had been born an Alpha, perhaps things would have been different.

 

Perhaps he could have kept Angel safe without fear or secrecy.

 

Perhaps he would not have had to navigate the cruel lattice of obligation and dominance that governed every breath of his existence. Perhaps he would not have been forced to bow to men who demanded surrender. 

 

But he had not been born an Alpha.

 

He was trapped in this flesh - this body shaped for consumption. 

 

A form crafted not for autonomy, but for use. And bound within it was a spirit weighted by an ancient curse, woven deep into the very fibers of his being. Something he could never fully shrug off. Something that followed him no matter how fiercely he resisted.

 

The pressure of it all settled heavily around him.

 

The world pressed in.
 

The future narrowed into sharp, unforgiving lines.

 

And still he smiled.

 

Because the spark inside him had not gone out.

 

He would carve out something small if that was all he was allowed. A narrow sanctuary. A fragile pocket of warmth. It would not be perfect. It would never be untouched by pain.

 

But it would be theirs.

 

And no matter what agony came for him in the meantime, he swore he would keep Angel within reach - close enough to love in whatever small ways this world still permitted.

 

He would keep Niffty safe.

 

He would make certain her spirit remained untethered. Unbound by the weight that dragged so many others into smaller, duller versions of themselves. He would protect that boundless energy of hers and see that it continued to spill out in wild, strange bursts of enthusiasm. He would guard her light as fiercely as he was able.

 

And he would keep Husk at his side.

 

A full repayment for an attempted kindness. Alastor would see to it that the feline’s place in this dreary world was no longer left to chance. That he would always have a seat at the table; a role within the strange empire Alastor would carve from ash and ambition.

 

Even if it cost him everything.

 

They were his, after all.

 

Not as property. Not as trophies. But as something far rarer in a world like this - they were chosen. Claimed not by blood or dominance, but by something entirely different. 

 

All of them.

 

And he had no intention of letting them go.

Chapter 53: 53

Alastor indulged in a light round of drinking while Husk maintained his position as an Overlord who merely tolerated the doe’s presence. On the surface, it was nothing more than a casual alliance - two figures sharing space in neutral indulgence. But beneath that, both of them were playing their parts flawlessly.

 

Husk made a public show of building a slow, subtle rapport with Vox’s runaway spouse. Nothing rushed. Nothing suspicious. Every interaction appeared organic. Idle conversation, shared drinks and a few well-timed laughs exchanged across dimly lit tables. The feline was meticulous. Alastor couldn’t help but admire the precision of it.

 

They had discussed the ploy at length beforehand.

 

He allowed himself to appear increasingly relaxed in Husk’s company, his body language softening just enough to suggest comfort without crossing into anything overtly familiar. No lingering touches. No private murmurs. Only the illusion of ease.

 

It was a delicate balance.

 

A careful performance.

 

And from time to time, Husk fed Vox exactly what he wanted - small pieces of information and nothing that endangered Angel or their long game. But even these crumbs were enough. They reinforced the narrative. They helped secure Husk’s position as yet another blade quietly being turned against Alastor.

 

Yet outside of those moments Alastor allowed himself something dangerously close to freedom.

 

He immersed himself in Pentagram City.

 

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he was permitted to exist as one of its citizens. No escort at his shoulder. No firm hand at his back. No rigid expectations dictating where he could go or how long he could linger.

 

He moved as a Beta or even an Alpha might. 

 

It was intoxicating.

 

A pity he could not share it with Angel.

 

But that, too, was part of the long game. Once everything was properly arranged - once Husk rivaled the Vees in reputation and standing - they would be able to move more freely through his territory. Together.

 

Until then, this freedom was borrowed.

 

Alastor played dice.

Then dominoes.

Then cards.

 

He took long drags from his flask and let the warmth of the liquor settle in his chest. He enjoyed his cigarettes slowly, savoring it. At one point, he even sat at the piano - claws gliding across the keys to the delight of nearby patrons, laughter and applause rippling through the room.

 

For a while, he pretended to be like anyone else.

 

And he enjoyed the fantasy more than he cared to admit.

 

Betas were enviable in that way. They were the majority. They did not live beneath the same relentless scrutiny. They were spared the crushing expectations that stalked Alphas and Omegas alike.

 

To play at being one was… nice.

 

Dangerous.

 

But nice.

 

And for a soul that had been held so tightly for so long, that illusion of normalcy became a quiet, aching reprieve.

 

One he desperately needed.

 

❧

Angel Dust, at his very core, had always embraced his sexuality without apology. He was proud of his work. Where others might sneer and call it demeaning, he saw it as craft. 

 

Sex, to Angel, was never just one thing.

 

And over time, he had become fluent in all its languages.

 

Alastor, on the other hand, was… different.

 

He did not pursue sex with hunger or intent. He did not recoil from it either. Instead, he accepted it with a calm sort of indifference when it came his way. He never judged Angel for his profession. Never belittled it. Never eroticized it beyond simple acknowledgment.

 

It was the same way someone might acknowledge another’s trade or hobby.

 

Oh. This is simply what you do.

 

It was fascinating.

 

They were tucked away within the quiet safety of Alastor’s chambers now. Angel lounged against him, head resting comfortably on Alastor’s shoulder, their bodies close in an easy, familiar way. One of Angel’s hands idly traced along the sleeve of Alastor’s blouse. 

 

“So,” Angel murmured lightly, breaking the quiet. “Tell me about Adam.”

 

Alastor tilted his head just a fraction. “Jealous?”

 

There was a teasing lilt to his voice.

 

Angel snickered softly. 

 

“I don’t mind sharin’,” he said easily. “He’s - uh - what does he look like underneath all those robes?”

 

Alastor considered that for a beat. “Like a man.”

 

Angel lifted his head slightly, brows climbing. “Like a… human? So he’s just some guy under all that?”

 

“More or less.”

 

“Holy shit,” Angel breathed. “I gotta see.”

 

“I’m sure if you ask, he won’t mind,” Alastor replied, dryly. “I’m left with the impression his edge softens around Omegas.”

 

“For you, maybe,” Angel said, incredulously. “I can’t imagine he’s that gentle with the rest of us.”

 

He shifted closer, curling in a little more snugly against Alastor’s side. 

 

“What’s his deal anyway? He’s real loyal to Lucifer. I heard the stories - you know, how he fell in battle, got taken prisoner by the King for a century before he came back. But when he came back, he came back… wrong.”

 

“The simple fact that he came back at all is noteworthy,” Alastor replied.

 

Angel hummed quietly. “You ever asked him? About any of it?”

 

“I doubt that would make for a pleasant conversation.”

 

“Maybe you can ask Lucifer,” Angel suggested, lightly.

 

Alastor’s expression pinched at that, just slightly.

 

Angel noticed.

 

“…Right,” he added softly, sheepish. “Bad idea.”

 

He let his head settle back against Alastor’s shoulder. 

 

“Still,” he murmured, quieter now, “guess it’s kinda weird bein’ so close to all these big, scary legends… and finding out they’re just people underneath all the noise.”

 

Alastor’s arm shifted subtly, resting more securely around Angel’s shoulders.

 

“I can’t imagine havin’ both of ‘em breathin’ down your neck,” Angel muttered. “Lucifer… he seems real interested in you. And not in a good way.”

 

Alastor’s right ear gave a faint, involuntary flick.

 

“I am… aware,” he replied. “He has been quite clear about his interest. On more than one occasion.”

 

Angel huffed. “Yeah. Not exactly subtle about it either.”

 

He shifted a little closer, one arm draping more securely across Alastor’s middle as he settled in. 

 

“Still… I guess I can at least rest easy knowin’ Valentino can’t just tear the walls down to get to us in here.”

 

Alastor’s gaze softened.

 

“I’d rather you not be trapped behind these walls for an eternity,” he said. “Perhaps, after a time, we might enjoy a proper night out instead. Somewhere indulgent. Somewhere far removed from… all of this.”

 

Angel lifted his head at that, eyes brightening. 

 

“Really?”

 

Alastor’s grin widened, just a touch - warm in a way that was rare for him.

 

“Promise.”

 

Angel’s smile spread slow and bright as he tucked himself closer again, cheek pressing lightly to Alastor’s shoulder.

 

“Then I’ll hold ya to it, Al.”

 

❧

 

The night unfolded like so many others in Pentagram City. Music bled through the walls in uneven rhythms. Laughter burst and died in pockets. Glasses clinked. Money changed hands. The air thrummed with indulgence and risk in equal measure.

 

Alastor thrived in it.

 

He had tried his hand at nearly every table over the course of the evening - testing dice briefly and glancing with faint amusement at the slots before dismissing them altogether. But it was the cards that truly held his attention tonight.

 

Poker first.

 

A slow game. A patient one.

 

He enjoyed the subtle warfare of it. The careful study of expressions and the telltale twitch of a claw or the slight tightening of a jaw. He folded when it suited him. Raised when it startled them. 

 

Then came blackjack.

 

It was cleaner and faster in comparison. A dialogue between numbers and nerve. He liked the simplicity of it, each decision clean and immediate. Risk distilled into something sharp and elegant.

 

Wins came easily.

 

Losses barely touched him.

 

It wasn’t about the money, truly.  What he relished was the ritual. The tension. The way the table leaned in when the stakes climbed just high enough to make palms sweat.

By the time he finally settled back into his chair with his flask in hand, he’d built himself a pleasant, steady buzz. Not enough to dull him. Just enough to soften the edges. His eyes were partly lidded now, the doe radiating with a lazy satisfaction. 

 

He had just finished another round when his gaze drifted toward Husk.

 

The feline was moving through the den with effortless, refined grace. There was a confidence to him now that had not always been there. A superior poise that fit him far better than the slouched bitterness he’d once boasted. 

 

Alastor had watched that transformation with quiet interest.

 

It was as though, once Husk had finally been assured of his place something long-buried inside him had reawakened. The confidence he’d lost to debt and degradation had returned. . 

 

Now, he moved like a man worthy of the title Overlord.

 

Husk’s power was growing. Souls were beginning to gather beneath his banner. Not in floods, not yet, but steadily. Consistently. A trickle that would, given enough time, become a current.

 

Alastor’s eyes narrowed. 

 

Husk signaled.

 

It was subtle. Invisible to anyone not watching for it. A flick of his tail. A lazy twirl at the tip. A soft, deliberate swish that meant only one thing.

 

Danger.

 

Someone was coming.

 

Alastor lifted his flask for one last, unhurried draw. The burn of the drink slid warmly down his throat as he tucked the sleek container neatly away.

 

The game, it seemed, was about to change.

 

He couldn’t move.

 

If Husk had been warned that someone was encroaching on his territory, then Alastor making his leave now would look far too deliberate. 

 

So he stayed.

 

He remained settled in his booth, posture loose. The picture of leisure. The illusion of a doe with nothing to hide and nowhere else to be.

 

And then he saw them.

 

They were beautiful in their own awful way.

 

Velvette, Valentino and Vox. 

 

The Vees entered, all slick lines and polished edges -  every inch of them styled to perfection. Glamour clung to them like a second skin. 

 

They were dressed like the conquerors they were.

Their gazes swept lazily over the gambling den, skimming patrons without interest. Noise began to gradually dim as patrons noted their presence. 

 

It was inevitable.

 

All three shifted their gazes. 

 

And found him.

 

The moment stretched.

 

And Alastor’s grin broadened. 

Chapter 54: 54

Their approach was unhurried.

 

Every step was deliberate - neither rushed nor hesitant. They did not advance like predators preparing to strike. This was something far more intentional. It was a performance of civility. And an open demonstration that they wanted to be seen approaching him.

 

Alastor’s gaze slid from one to the next.

 

Vox first. Rigid. Controlled. Violence bristling just beneath the polish.

Velvette second. Chin lifted, eyes half-lidded with cool appraisal.

Valentino last. Languid and predatory - his grin already carved into place.

 

Alastor did not rise.

 

He remained exactly where he was as they closed in around the booth. Vox leaned forward first, looming just inside Alastor’s personal space.

 

“Hey, sweetheart.”

 

Alastor’s right ear flicked once.

 

“Hello, Vincent.”

 

Vox’s attention dropped immediately to the exposed line of Alastor’s neck.

 

The bruises were obscenely fresh.

 

They smothered the old claiming mark beneath newer, darker evidence of possession.

 

Vox’s screen flickered.

 

“Enjoying your night out, love?” Velvette asked. “We’ve been hearing you’ve been making quite the spectacle of yourself.”

 

“I’ve been enjoying myself,” Alastor replied, evenly. “A far cry from our evenings together, Velvette.”

 

“Oh, but we did have fun, didn’t we?” Valentino crooned. “All five of us.”

 

Alastor rested his elbow on the table and set his chin in his palm.

 

“I suppose we did.”

 

“And we could again, baby,” Valentino pressed, smoothly. “You and Angel Dust. All of us.”

 

The doe blinked slowly. 

 

“I don’t believe so, Valentino.”

 

The moth only smiled wider.

 

“I suppose we should skip the pleasantries, then,” Alastor added mildly. 

 

His fingers steepled beneath his chin as he peered up at them. 

 

“Do tell - what compels this unexpected visit?”

 

“It’s not malicious,” Velvette said.

 

Alastor lifted a brow. “Oh?”

 

“We wanted to see you,” Vox said.

 

The softness in his tone rang wrong. 

 

“I do apologize,” Alastor replied, pleasantly, “if I find myself unconvinced of your peaceful intentions toward my person.”

 

“Everything we’ve ever done was for your benefit,” Vox said, flatly.

 

“Was it?” Alastor tilted his head. “Was it truly?”

 

Vox stared at him, searching his smiling face.

 

“Whether you believe it or not is irrelevant, baby,” he said.  “We just wanna talk.”

 

“You are already doing so. Kindly proceed.”

 

Vox straightened slightly.

 

“We wanna strike a deal.”

 

Alastor’s brow arched - with genuine interest this time.

 

“A deal?”

 

Vox placed a claw against the edge of the booth seat and leaned in.

 

“A temporary one. With very clear stipulations.”

 

“I’m listening.”

 

“You spend the night with me - with us,” Vox said. “And in exchange, we leave you and Angel Dust alone for a full week. Seven uninterrupted days. You wander wherever you like. Val, Vel, and I don’t touch either of you.”

 

Alastor went still.

 

Not outwardly.

 

But internally, something tightened.

 

That offer was wrong.

 

Too clean.

 

“A tempting proposal,” he murmured. “Which leads me to suspect it is a trap.”

 

“Then set your own terms,” Vox replied.

 

Alastor hummed quietly.

 

“You will not attempt to communicate with Angel nor introduce a secondary party to interfere on your behalf for the duration of the seven days.”

 

Vox smiled. Fond and possessive in equal measure.

 

“More than acceptable.”

 

“I leave the moment the night concludes. Eight hours. Not a minute longer.”

 

“Fine.”

 

“And I do not wish to be touched.”

 

Vox responds with a flat answer, his facial features flattening. 

 

“No.”

 

Alastor smiled faintly. 

 

“Mm. Then I will amend that. I do not wish for anything invasive to be introduced into my body.”

 

Vox’s claw tapped idly against the seat.

 

“Such as?”

 

“Drugs,” Alastor replied, evenly. “I would prefer my senses remain intact.”

 

Silence stretched.

 

Vox studied him.

 

“Is that all, sweetheart?”

 

Alastor’s smile sharpened.

 

“We stay here,” he said, lightly. “In the gambling den.”

 

“In the building?” Vox clarified.

 

“Acceptable.”

 

Vox considered it for a half second. 

 

“Fine.”

 

“And no hypnosis.”

 

“Of course, baby.”

 

Alastor said nothing as Vox gingerly reached for his hand. He permitted the contact with practiced stillness as the Alpha pressed a reverent kiss to his knuckles. The devotion in the gesture was unmistakable. 

 

Too familiar.

 

It stirred a memory he did not welcome.

 

For just a moment, the smile at the corners of his mouth strained.

 

This is foolish to even consider.

 

But then Angel’s face came to mind.

 

The promise.

 

A potential week of freedom where they could enjoy themselves.

 

Vox’s lips brushed softly against the edge of his claws again.

 

“Please, baby,” he crooned. “I just wanna spend some time with you.”

 

Alastor’s ears flattened.

 

He could feel it then - the combined weight of Velvette’s scrutiny and Valentino’s predatory interest; both of them waiting to see which way he would fall.

 

“And if I refuse the deal?” Alastor asked. 

 

Vox’s tone shifted.

 

“Then we’ll have a problem, won’t we?”

 

His grip tightened around Alastor’s hand.

 

“Do you really think you can handle all three of us at once?”

 

“Vincent.”

 

“You’re not leaving this place untouched either way,” Vox said, calmly. “So think real carefully about it.”

 

Alastor did not flinch.

 

He didn’t fear confrontation - not truly. He was refreshed.

 

But this was Husk’s domain.

 

And he would not scorch ground he had only just helped restore. The gambling den was decadent and fragile in the way all beautiful things here were.

 

Violence would ruin it.

 

So instead, Alastor tilted his head.

 

“How did you know I was here?”

 

Vox leaned closer, his grin slow and knowing. The filter in his voice buzzed softly as he answered.

 

“We’re always watching, sweetheart.”

 

“I see.”

 

Alastor finally withdrew his hand.

 

He considered the pieces of the deal carefully. 

 

Then, softly:

 

“When does this week of ‘freedom’ begin?”

 

“Whenever you’d like it to start,” Vox replied, smoothly.

 

Alastor’s smile did not waver.

 

“It will happen after my heat, then.”

 

The shift was immediate.

 

Vox’s expression fell like a dropped mask.

 

“... Excuse me?”

 

“After my heat, Vincent,” Alastor repeated, calmly. “I’m left with the distinct impression that this arrangement is an elaborate form of deceit. And I am not so foolish as to step directly into it on the eve of my cycle.”

 

For the first time, Vox stiffened outright.

 

At the edge of Alastor’s vision, Velvette’s eyes narrowed, her attention honing in with sudden focus. Valentino’s grin lingered - but it thinned, just slightly. 

 

“Fine,” Vox said at last.

 

“Then I suppose,” Alastor murmured, tilting his head with a polite, dangerous ease, “we have a deal.”

 

Vox stared at him for a long moment.

 

Then his smile returned.

 

“It looks like we do,” he agreed.

Chapter 55: 55

“That outfit doesn’t suit you,” Velvette declared, flatly.

 

Vox and Valentino were absorbed in their game nearby. Neither of them spared Alastor so much as a glance as Velvette took it upon herself to saddle up beside him. Her presence was immediately felt. One immaculate hand reached out, perfect nails plucking delicately at the sleeve of his coat.

 

It was a curious thing. 

 

How he didn’t immediately recoil at the touch.

 

Despite everything, he was well-acquainted with her scrutiny. Intimately so. Every article of clothing he owned had been dissected beneath that same sharp, merciless gaze. The very foundation of his wardrobe had been stripped apart and rebuilt according to what Velvette deemed appropriate for Omega fashion. 

 

He could still recall the day she first set foot in the penthouse.

 

Her eyes had swept over him with immediate judgment before she ever so much as acknowledged the room. Then she’d moved through their home like a curator through a gallery - opening drawers, rifling through closets and lifting garments between her fingers only to discard them in visible disdain. 

 

Anything that did not meet her standards was tossed aside into a growing heap for disposal. Vox had surrendered him into her care without hesitation. And Alastor had found himself dragged through an endless procession of fittings and alterations - tugged here, turned there, pinned and measured and reshaped entirely at her whim.

 

The number of outfits she had made him wear in the process was, frankly, obscene.

 

“You’re a modern-day Omega, love,” she had said with breezy authority. “You require the perfect balance of conservative and provocative. A modernized twist on old-fashioned aesthetics to complement that outdated little radio-host persona of yours.”

 

It had not been a suggestion.

 

From that day forward, his hooves and claws were expected to gleam like rubies. Sharpness dulled just enough to soften the finish. 

 

And then there were the corsets.

 

Velvette always knew when he wasn’t wearing one.

 

It took only a single glance for her to notice. On the rare occasions he dared to go without, she would click her tongue loudly and crook a finger in his direction without even raising her voice. Alastor would find himself herded into a changing room where her hands went immediately to the lace. She always pulled harder than necessary. Always just enough to remind him that this ritual was not just about tailoring.

 

It was correction.

 

She’d comment whenever he disappointed her. 

 

“You look like a damned Beta,” she had remarked coolly on one such occasion. “A decently dressed one, I’ll grant you. But that’s not what you are, love.”

 

“I do apologize for falling short of your expectations, Velvette,” he had replied, demurely.

And now - …

 

Now she stood beside him once more, fingers still at his sleeve, adjusting him as casually as one might adjust a display. 

 

Something within the boundaries of Alastor’s mind - the trained, domesticated part of him - commanded absolute stillness. It was reflexive. A learned response born not from force alone, but from repetition. From consequence. And from the quiet understanding that movement invited correction and correction was never gentle.

 

“You’re not wearing a corset,” Velvette remarked at last, frowning faintly.

 

His waist was narrow by nature - unnaturally so, the Omega’s build sculpted into something delicate and precise. But the corset had always exaggerated that truth, drawing the line of his body inward with cruel elegance. The effect was subtle when viewed from a distance. Devastating up close. A silhouette sharpened to an ideal.

 

And it hurt.

 

It always hurt.

 

He had been taught to move within that pain. To breathe around it. To sit, to walk and to bend with practiced grace while material kissed his ribs and reminded him with every inhale that even his comfort was conditional.

 

The simple fact that he was no longer forced to wear the garment beyond the walls of the Morningstar Castle was…

 

Liberating.

 

As Velvette’s gaze settled on him now, a flicker of anxiety sparked low in his chest. He had the sudden, irrational fear that she might strip him down right there. That she would lace him into a fresh corset with ruthless efficiency.

 

That she would pull - 

 

And pull - 

 

He forced brightness into his smile.

 

“I’m in need of a bit more flexibility these days, I’m afraid,” Alastor said. “The life of an unkept Omega is rather exciting, Velvette.”

 

The word unkept earned him a sharp look. 

 

Her features pinched with open displeasure, lips pressing into a thin, critical line as her eyes traced him anew - not with appreciation, but with assessment. Disapproval radiated from her in quiet, tangible waves. Alastor could practically feel the itch in her fingers and the urge to strip his suit apart seam by seam and rebuild him in her image once more.

 

His gaze flickered, just for a moment.

 

He remembered the day she had spoken of maternity wear with a calculated enthusiasm.

 

How his corsets, she had said, would one day be replaced with fabrics engineered to emphasize his vulnerability rather than conceal it. To contour the swell of his body. To broadcast his condition in elegant, unmistakable lines. 

 

Everyone would see.
 

Everyone would know.

 

The thought still left a faint, icy knot beneath his ribs.

 

And then there was the expectation of his appearance.

 

Velvette had seen to that personally.

 

Every product he once owned had been deemed insufficient, replaced one by one with more refined versions - rarer pigments, higher-quality powders, tailored oils and creams. 

 

Nothing was allowed to be merely functional. Each item was designed to optimize him. To ensure that her influence touched him every single time he prepared himself for the world.

 

Even solitude was not free of her.

 

His daily routine was no longer his own. It was ritualized. Engineered for consistency and spectacle. For the guarantee that at any given moment he would be camera ready. 

 

There was no such thing as “off duty” for him.

 

Slowly his gaze drifted away from Velvette and returned to where Vox and Valentino stood absorbed in their game. 

 

They did not look at him.

 

But he knew that they were listening.

 

❧

 

Valentino had taught him how to perform.

 

Velvette and Vox lingered at the slots nearby, taking their turns with exaggerated dismay and crooked delight - snickering when one failed and grumbling when the other landed a modest success. 

 

Alastor sat just off to the side.

 

Valentino settled in beside him easily, one of his four arms looping around Alastor’s narrow waist with casual familiarity. The grip was not tight.

 

It didn’t need to be.

 

“You look good, baby,” Valentino remarked. 

 

“Thank you, Valentino,” Alastor replied with equal politeness.

 

Valentino’s crimson eyes lingered on him, slow and appraising. 

 

“It’s a shame the only recent footage of you is shit,” he added, conversationally. “You oughta think about getting back in front of the camera. A face like yours…?”

 

He lifted his pipe and took a long, indulgent draw.

 

Pink smoke spilled from his mouth in a thin, curling ribbon - sweet enough to cling to the air. It drifted lazily between them, fragrant and cloying.

 

“…would be a shame to waste,” Valentino finished. “It deserves to be seen.”

 

Valentino’s arm remained at his waist as if Alastor had always belonged there. 

 

He remembered how stiff he had been the first time a camera had been turned on him.

 

He’d once been arrested in place by the unblinking eye of something he did not understand. The technology itself was foreign - an invention that had not yet reached full form in his era of birth. During his years in Cannibal Town, progress had passed him by entirely. Innovation had not touched those streets in any organic way. 

 

So when he married Vox, the dissonance had been immediate.

 

Vox loved the camera.

 

He understood it intuitively - where to look, how to angle his body, how to modulate his voice for an unseen audience. He bloomed beneath its attention and basked in the power of being watched. Alastor, by contrast, wilted beneath it. He did not understand the lens. He mistrusted it. He had no desire to be flattened into an image.

 

And when he had voiced that resistance - …

 

Vox had smiled.

 

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he’d said, “but this is non-negotiable.”

 

After Valentino entered the picture the moth had taken it upon himself to correct the problem.

 

He taught Alastor how to perform.

 

Not with overt violence.

 

But with hands.

 

With patience sharpened into insistence.

 

He guided Alastor through movement by touch and verbal instruction; arranging his limbs like props, adjusting the tilt of his shoulders and the angle of his head. 

 

Valentino was a master of the craft.

 

And because of that - he was relentless.

 

He never struck Alastor as he did Angel. Not with open brutality. Instead, he learned where Alastor’s attachments lived and twisted those into leverage. He used affection like a tool. Withdrew warmth as punishment. Granted it as reward and shaped want into obedience.

 

“You need to do better, honey,” Valentino would croon gently, fingers stilling at Alastor’s jaw as the camera waited. “I want more spirit. Is that understood?”

 

“Yes, Valentino,” Alastor replied.

 

“Good.”

 

Vox had been immensely pleased with his progress.

 

So pleased, in fact, that he began to surrender him to Valentino’s care with increasing frequency. Handing him off with casual confidence, as though passing along a prized instrument to be tuned. 

 

Each return came with new refinements. 

 

Alastor endured it with practiced composure.

 

And in the margins of all of it he bore witness to Angel Dust’s line of work.

 

He saw what the cameras demanded.

 

He was there in the quiet after, helping to clean the glitter and residue from Angel’s skin. There was never judgment in his hands - only care. Only concern, especially on the nights when Angel’s brightness dimmed more than usual. When the exhaustion lingered after a shoot that had gone on too long or had grown too intense. 

 

Those were the nights Alastor said little and stayed close.

 

And Valentino saw all of it.

 

He observed the gentle tending with open amusement. With an indulgent interest. As though he were watching two pets curl together for warmth after being worked hard. There was something fond in his gaze - but it was the fondness one reserved for property that behaved exactly as expected.

 

Alastor blinked as he surfaced back into the present - realizing, with a slow twist of mild horror, that he had leaned into Valentino’s side without ever consciously choosing to. The awareness came to him all at once. 

 

One of Valentino’s hands moved through Alastor’s curls with deliberate tenderness, fingers stroking slowly, as though this closeness had been earned rather than conditioned. The touch was careful and possessive in its gentleness. 

 

A public affection crafted to look indulgent instead of claiming.

 

❧

As Vox settled into a fresh round of dice, he rolled his shoulders with easy confidence and casually tossed the tiny cubes between his claws. The eager grin on his face was all anticipation, bright and predatory as he squared off against both Valentino and Velvette in a game of craps.

 

Alastor stood at his side, posture composed, gaze drifting toward the table with polite curiosity as though he were only mildly invested in the outcome.

 

Then Vox’s hand appeared before him.

 

Alastor blinked once in surprise as he registered the dice resting in the Alpha’s palm. Vox’s fingers curled slightly, expectant.

 

“I could use a little luck, baby.”

 

The doe’s eyes flicked up sharply, his expression tightening with a flash of mild warning. But he indulged him regardless. Carefully, he leaned in just enough to blow a gentle breath across the dice. 

 

Vox’s grin widened instantly, openly pleased.

 

“Hey! Where’s my luck?” Valentino grouched, clicking his tongue as he leaned forward. 

 

“Yeah, Vox,” Velvette snapped, irritation flashing sharp across her features. 

 

Vox only laughed before tossing the dice with theatrical flourish.

 

They clattered across the felt in a blur of motion and sound.

 

Alastor watched it all in quiet stillness.

 

The trio were, unsurprisingly, competent. 

 

Gambling was woven into the marrow of Hell; chance and risk were currencies as natural as breath. Vox played with performative confidence, Velvette with sharp calculation and Valentino with reckless appetite. Alastor followed the rhythm of the game without comment, tracking wins and losses with detached clarity as the flow of it carried on.

 

They looked happy.

 

It was an unsettling thought.

 

Harder still was how difficult it was to reduce them to nothing more than obstacles. He had tried. He had told himself that was all they were now - barriers to be outmaneuvered and threats to be neutralized. But the truth pressed in regardless.

 

They had been his family.

 

For decades.

 

And no matter how carefully he rearranged the narrative in his mind, those roots did not tear free cleanly.

 

It unsettled him that he could not fully override the feeling.

 

❧

 

“Where are we going, Vincent?”

 

Three hours had slipped by.

 

Alastor had tracked every one of them with quiet precision. The den had grown louder, hazier and thick with heat and indulgence. Eventually, Vox rose from his seat with unhurried confidence and extended a hand toward him.

 

“We’re a married couple, aren’t we?”

 

“Yes,” Alastor replied, evenly.

 

Vox’s smile sharpened. 

 

“Then we deserve a moment of privacy, don’t we?”

 

“I - ”

 

For the first time that night, warmth crept faintly into Alastor’s face.

 

“There are private rooms here,” Vox continued, smoothly. “I rented one ahead of time. I figured we could share another drink. Talk.”

 

Alastor arched a brow.

 

“‘Talk?’”

 

Vox’s grin widened. 

 

“Among other things.”

 

“I - ”

 

Vox’s grip closed around his wrist before he could speak. The motion was swift, unmistakably decisive as he drew Alastor up onto his feet.

 

“We’re going.”

 

Alastor released a quiet breath. Not surprise. Not quite resignation. Something in between. He gave a small nod, composed despite the heat now lingering in his cheeks.

 

He was aware of every gaze upon them as they turned away.

Chapter 56: 56

Alastor had been drinking throughout the night.

 

Slowly at first. Just enough to take the edge off the noise, the watching eyes and the constant pressure of being perceived. Gradually, the alcohol began to erode the sharpness of his senses. Not fully. But enough that the world softened at its edges. 

 

When his flask finally ran dry, he leaned instead on the careful wording of the deal to grant him a thin, calculated layer of protection.

 

He drank.

 

His desire to indulge had not vanished after fleeing from the Vees. It had merely become manageable again. Reined in just enough to pass as restraint. The days had been easier lately, and so he found himself drinking occasionally. 

 

The night was easier when paired with alcohol.

 

With every restless stirring of memory, he indulged again.

 

And the Vees had watched him do it.

 

None of them commented. Their gazes merely tracked the motion with quiet, patient attention.

 

Eventually, he found himself in a room.

 

It was richly appointed. Clean lines and modern elegance framed by plush seating and soft lighting that gave everything a faint, unreal glow. 

 

The door clicked shut behind him.

 

And then it was just him and Vox.

 

The strangest part was how strange it felt to be alone with him again. Truly alone. Without the immediate expectation of confrontation. Without raised voices or pressed boundaries. 

 

Alastor stepped farther into the room and glanced over his shoulder at the Alpha.

 

“How do you feel,” the man asked. 

 

Alastor hummed, squinting faintly as he tested the question against his own senses.

 

“A little drunk,” he admitted lightly. “If we’re being honest.”

 

Vox laughed.

 

“I had a feeling. You never really shook that habit, did you?” He gestured lazily toward the seating. “Go on. Sit.”

 

Alastor obliged, settling smoothly into the available chair. A small table rested between them. His gaze followed Vox as he moved about the room with easy familiarity. Even through the haze, Alastor watched him closely. 

 

All night long, he had been observing.

 

Something about this still didn’t align.

 

There had to be a layer he couldn’t quite see. Some secondary mechanism waiting to be engaged. A metaphorical silver wire strung just beneath the surface. 

 

And yet…

 

They had seemed like themselves.

 

So familiar in behavior. So consistent in mannerisms that he had slid back into old rhythms without quite meaning to. Thirty years of conditioned routine did that - it smoothed the unnatural into something deceptively easy.

 

“I got your favorite,” Vox announced.

 

He returned with two bottles of wine in hand, setting one gently on the table while offering the other to Alastor with a faint flourish.

 

“Reserved for a… special occasion.”

 

Alastor’s claws closed around the bottle automatically.

 

He recognized the label at once.

 

This had been his preferred blend for years. When all other choices of alcohol had been withheld, he had cultivated a taste for this one out of necessity.

 

Memory of its taste stirred at the back of his tongue.

 

His mouth faintly watered before he could stop it.

 

Vox placed two glasses on the table with deliberate care.

 

He shouldn’t.

 

Alastor knew that he was teetering right at the edge of his limit.

 

And then the bottle was uncorked and his pupils dilated. Because that scent promised comfort and relief. A reprieve from everything. His gaze tracked as Vox poured for them both. He didn’t notice how the man’s own eyes remained upon him, a shine present in those projected orbs.

 

Once his glass was filled, his claws curled delicately around the stem. Slow and steady, he brought it to his lips.

 

The first swallow was warmth.

 

The second was memory.

 

His eyes slipped shut as his head tilted back. For a fleeting moment he fell into recollections of nights where the world had felt softer around the edges. 

 

When he opened his eyes again, he realized he had nearly finished the glass.

 

Vox was reclined on the opposite side now, nursing his own drink at a leisurely pace. His legs were crossed neatly and his posture was lax.

 

“You’ve been taking care of yourself, I see,” Vox remarked, casually.

 

“To the best of my ability,” Alastor replied.

 

“And Angel Dust?” Vox continued. “How has he been?”

 

“He’s been well,” he replied, tersely. 

 

Vox hummed, his projected eyes half-lidded in quiet appraisal.

 

“You’ve been enjoying yourself, haven’t you?”

 

“Whatever do you mean, Vincent?”

 

“What I mean,” Vox clarified, smoothly, “is that you’ve enjoyed playing the part of the wild, untamed Omega. You’ve stirred up quite the reputation.”

 

Alastor let out a soft chuckle and tipped back the remainder of his drink, polishing it off neatly.

 

Vox leaned forward and refilled the glass at once.

 

The motion was smoothly executed. 

 

“Do you know what I’d like to know, Vox?” Alastor asked, quietly.

 

The Alpha lifted his own glass again.

 

“Yes, sweetheart?”

 

“Why this farce?” Alastor said. “Why not come in as you did before?”

 

“I already told you,” Vox replied, evenly. “I wanted to talk.”

 

“That’s difficult to believe.”

 

“We wanted to spend time with you,” Vox insisted. “Like before. It wasn’t bad, was it?”

 

For a moment, Alastor’s gaze drifted out of focus. His claws tapped idly against the wooden table in a slow, absent rhythm. He did not reach for the refilled glass.

 

Not yet.

 

Because the memories Vox was trying to conjure were never as simple as he pretended they were.

 

“It was… tolerable.”

 

It unsettled him how easily old rhythms crept back in. How natural the cadence of this still felt. As though he had simply stepped back onto a stage he’d never truly left. The idea set his nerves on edge more than he cared to admit.

 

“Do you know how long you’ve been gone, sweetheart?” Vox asked.

 

“Half a year, more or less.”

 

Only then did Alastor lift his glass. He paced himself this time, taking a measured sip. The room wavered faintly at the edges, but his focus remained intact.

 

“Long enough for us to feel the absence,” Vox said. “Do you have any idea how important you are? How important Angel Dust is?”

 

“I’m aware,” Alastor replied, shortly.

 

Vox drank again - deeper this time.

 

“Then you understand why we’re trying to get you back.”

 

“I understand your desire,” Alastor said, calmly. “But understanding does not equate to acceptance. Nor surrender.”

 

“It rarely does,” Vox conceded. “Not in Hell.”

 

A brief pause.

 

“Do you intend to let me go freely once the eight hours are finished?” Alastor asked.

 

“We do.”

 

“How generous,” he murmured. “And how profoundly difficult to believe.”

 

Vox studied him. “You don’t trust me.”

 

Alastor burst into laughter.

 

“Of course I don’t, Vincent,” he said, amusement edged with something far more dangerous. “Why in the ever-loving Hell would I trust the man who manhandled me into marriage? Are we meant to be serious right now?”

 

“Did you ever trust me?”

 

Alastor sobered at once.

 

“What?”

 

Vox didn’t blink. “Did you ever trust me?”

 

Silence pressed in.

 

“I’d rather we not discuss this, Vincent,” Alastor replied, evenly.

 

Vox’s hand suddenly came down against the table with a sharp crack. The tremor rattled the bottles and wine sloshed dangerously close to their rims.

 

Alastor’s expression hardened into a sneer as Vox leaned forward, his voice stripped of softness entirely.

 

“Then when, exactly, do we get to ‘talk’?” he snapped. “Because I fucking promise you that our next discussion won’t be nearly so civil.”

 

The threat lingered between them, heavy and unresolved.

 

“I’m going to repeat my question,” Vox said, quietly. “Did you ever trust me?”

 

Alastor swallowed. His pupils trembled, breath catching just enough to betray him.

 

“Yes,” he admitted.

 

The word cost him more than he cared to acknowledge. In those most vulnerable years - when Vox had been all he had - he had curled into him. 

 

Vox studied him now, frowning faintly.

 

“…Did you love me?”

 

“Fuck, Vincent!”

 

Alastor surged to his feet and slammed his claws against the table. The impact rang sharp and loud. His eyes were wide now, pupils blown - the last threads of his  composure flaring violently apart.

 

“I am sick of this,” he snapped. “I am sick of you trying to drag these answers out of me - trying to corner me into feeling in ways that only make sense to you!”

 

He leaned forward across the table, malice threading his voice like wire.

 

“Not once in those thirty years was I ever given the impression that you cared how I felt,” he hissed. “You let Velvette dress me up like a doll. You let Valentino manipulate me like a puppet. You watched - and you allowed it - all of it!”

 

His chest heaved once.

 

Vox lifted his glass and took a measured sip of his wine.

 

The calm of it was maddening in contrast to the way Alastor was visibly coming apart at the seams.

 

Alastor’s breath hitched, ragged now. The weight of the night crashed down on him all at once. His stomach twisted violently, bile and dread churning together as his heart slammed painfully against his ribs.

 

“No one ever cared how I felt,” he rasped. “How Angel felt…”

 

The room tilted.

 

He swayed on his feet.

 

“Sit down, sweetheart,” Vox instructed, calmly. “You’re going to fall otherwise.”

 

For a brief moment, Alastor resisted on pure spite alone.

 

Then the dizziness surged again.

 

He sank back into the chair. Trembling claws raked through his mane as he tried to steady himself, breaths still uneven.

 

Vox watched him for a moment.

 

“You still didn’t answer my question.”

 

Alastor let out a brittle, breathless sound that might have been laughter if it didn’t hurt so much.

 

“Would you believe me,” he said quietly, forcing the words through his teeth, “if I said I don’t love you?”

 

Vox’s eyes never left him.

 

“No.”

 

Alastor’s smile turned sharp and exhausted.

 

“Then there’s no point in fucking asking, is there?”

 

“I suppose not.” 

 

He refilled the doe’s glass.

 

And Alastor drinks. 

Chapter 57: 57

Husk knew something was wrong the instant Vox stepped back onto the main floor without Alastor at his side.

 

They had been gone for hours.

 

Nearly four.

 

The night had long since begun bleeding into early morning. Valentino and Velvette had already taken their leave, both wearing the same infuriatingly smug expressions that made Husk’s teeth itch. The kind of satisfaction that came only from watching someone else lose.

 

And then Vox returned.

 

Alone.

 

Husk felt it immediately. The fur along his spine bristled. His ears flattened and something dense and cold settled into his gut as Vox crossed the floor with a pleased, unhurried air. Not relaxed or neutral. 

 

Pleased.

 

Husk didn’t wait once they’d gone.

 

His muscles coiled tight with impatience and he bolted for the private suites. His paws covered the distance in fast, silent strides. He knew exactly which room Vox had rented - had memorized the layout the moment they’d disappeared from the floor.

 

His heart hammered as he moved.

 

Some stubborn, desperate part of him still hoped he’d turn a corner and collide with Alastor standing there - shaken, maybe bruised, but upright. 

 

Alive in the way that mattered.

 

Because something had been wrong all night.

 

Alastor had been… off.

 

He’d been too quiet and too restrained. Playing consort to the Vees with a precision that felt mechanical rather than defiant. Smiling at the wrong moments. Yielding when he usually would have bitten back. The fire that normally burned behind his eyes had been tamped down into something tight and unnatural.

 

Like a leashed fucking pet.

 

It had made Husk furious to watch.

 

But Alastor had asked him not to intervene. Had made him promise. He’d needed Husk to play neutral and maintain the illusion.

 

And then he’d gone with Vox alone.

 

Now the anxiety was a living thing clawing at Husk’s chest.

 

It only worsened when he reached the door with master keys in hand. 

 

His nostrils flared as he scented something dreadfully familiar.

 

Blood.

 

The metallic tang hit him hard enough to make his stomach drop.

 

“Shit. Shit - ”

 

The words tore out of him as he fumbled with the lock, claws shaking just enough to slow him. When the door finally gave way and he shoved inside.

 

Alastor was on the bed.

 

Twitching.

 

Broken, choking sounds scraped out of his throat. His eyes were blown wide, unfocused, his body jerking. 

 

“Alastor!”

 

The room reeked of alcohol, stress and copper-thick blood.

 

Husk crossed it in three strides and tipped Alastor’s chin up.

 

His neck was bleeding.

 

It was deep, the flow slow and sluggish. It was the kind of wound meant to hurt more than it killed.

 

Husk sucked in a steadying breath and carefully peeled back the sheet.

 

Then he shut his eyes.

 

“Al. Hey. Hey - ”

 

He pulled him in without thinking, blood smearing across his suit as he gathered him close. Alastor blinked slowly, the world clearly too far away to make sense of yet.

 

Then focus returned in fractured pieces.

 

“Husk…?”

 

“Yeah, Al. I got ya,” he said roughly, his voice tight with restraint he was barely holding together.

 

A weak, hollow laugh slipped from Alastor’s throat.

 

“I suppose I had a… little too much to drink.”

 

Husk exhaled sharply through his teeth.

 

“Yeah. Real fuckin’ funny. C’mon. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

 

Alastor peered up at his face, eyes tracking the stress carved into every hard line of them.

 

“Yes,” he sighed, weakly. “That would be lovely. Thank you, Husk.”

 

Husk lifted him carefully - bridal and steady despite the way rage trembled under his skin. He carried him to the bath and eased him inside with a tenderness he hadn’t realized he still had.

 

Alastor slumped partially over the rim, blinking in slow, uncoordinated rhythm. He still reeked of alcohol. His senses were scattered - but beneath the haze, his awareness was frighteningly sharp.

 

“This won’t be… easy.”

 

Husk pressed a warm cloth to his neck, mopping up the excess blood. 

 

“They ain’t ever gonna make it easy, Al.”

 

“I’m going to tear them apart.”

 

Alastor’s head lolled forward, his eyes burning now.

 

“He thinks I’m weak,” he whispered. “Weak. I’ll show him - ”

 

His laugh fractured into something brittle and unhinged.

 

“I’ll show him how weak I am.”

 

Husk’s jaw tightened.

 

“And you’ll be there, Husk,” Alastor continued, raising a trembling claw to clutch weakly at the feline’s collar, eyes alight with something feral. “You’ll tear them apart with me.”

 

There was a strange, cutting intensity in his stare now. His smile stretched too wide and too bright.

 

“Isn’t that right, Husk?”

 

For a moment, Husk didn’t answer.

 

Then, quietly:

 

“Yeah, Al. Together.”

 

“With Niffty,” Alastor breathed, releasing his grip. “And Angel Dust. Every Sinner in this city’s going to see just how ‘weak’ I am.”

 

“Al.”

 

“They’ll see. They’ll fucking see.”

 

“Al.”

 

Husk pressed his forehead gently to Alastor’s, forcing his gaze to steady. One paw closed around the hand that had slipped over the tub’s edge, fingers interlocking.

 

“We’ll make ’em see,” Husk swore under his breath.

 

“Husk...”

 

“Together.”

 

Alastor shut his eyes, immersing himself in Husk’s warmth. 

 

❧

Alastor was settled into a comfortable robe once his wounds had been properly cleaned. The remnants of blood and alcohol were washed from his skin. Husk transferred them from the ruined room into a quieter one nearby - clean and mercifully removed from the stained reminder of what had happened.

 

The Beta examined the wound on Alastor’s neck with a critical eye.

 

“Vox didn’t approve of my… marks,” Alastor said, plainly. “They offended his sensitive sensibilities. And I’m afraid I was too intoxicated to put up much resistance.”

 

Husk’s brows knitted together as he leaned in closer. 

 

“Looks like you still fought back.”

 

Alastor gave a quiet, almost hollow huff of a laugh.

 

“I… admittedly don’t recall a fair amount of the interaction.”

 

Husk moved to sit at the small table nearby while Alastor drifted toward the window. The Omega leaned against the glass, arms folded across his chest -  gazing out at the distant sprawl of Pentagram City below. The streets glittered faintly beneath the haze. 

 

“You gotta calm that drinkin’ shit down when you’re out here, Al,” Husk said, heavily.

 

Alastor let out a quiet breath, eyes falling shut for a moment.

 

“I know,” he murmured. “It was a mistake.”

 

“They coulda done anything to you.”

 

Alastor turned his head slightly, shooting him a curious look.

 

“Would you have let them?”

 

Husk’s expression darkened instantly.

 

“No.”

 

That single word was absolute.

 

Alastor allowed himself a genuine smile then. It softened his usual expression before fading into something more severe.

 

“I need to tell you about the little deal they struck with me.”

 

Once Husk heard the details, he leaned back and stroked his chin thoughtfully.

 

“That’s… an odd arrangement.”

 

Alastor hummed in agreement.

 

“Isn’t it? Unfortunately, they were careful not to share much beyond the bare minimum. Vox simply made it clear that our next discussion won’t be so ‘civil.’”

 

“There’s a chance they’re tryin’ to flush you and Angel out in the open,” Husk muttered. “I just don’t get the why of it. Especially if they technically ain’t supposed to touch you.”

 

“That’s the confusing part,” Alastor replied. “I cannot begin to grasp their true angle.”

 

Husk’s ears flicked.

 

“Technically, if they’d taken you, it’d be a roll of the dice on how to secure Angel.”

 

Alastor turned fully from the window.

 

“If they ever ‘take me,’ I expect you to make sure Angel stays exactly where he is,” he said, calmly. “I’ll manage on my own.”

 

“Al - ”

 

“That’s non-negotiable.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “He will not go back to that Hell - even if I remain in it alone. Do this for me, Husk.”

 

The room fell quiet.

 

After a heartbeat of hesitation, Husk nodded.

 

“…Alright.”

 

A beat passed.

 

“So,” Husk added, gruffly, “you plan on takin’ Angel out for those seven days?”

 

“Once or twice,” Alastor replied thoughtfully. “But I intend to time it carefully. Have you been getting any messages from Vox?”

 

“Yeah,” Husk said. “He’s been blowin’ up my phone all day.”

 

Alastor stilled.

 

“…All day?”

 

“Yeah, Al.”

 

“Even while you were at the castle?”

 

Husk hesitated.

 

“…Yeah.”

 

Alastor’s eyes narrowed slowly.

 

And then a memory comes back to him. 

 

Angel Dust idled the moments away by slipping his hand casually into his purse, scrolling through messages with idle elegance. The handbag itself was exquisite - white leather, silver-toned chain strap crossing over one delicate shoulder to the opposite hip. 

 

It looked expensive. 

 

Alastor glanced sideways, curiosity flickering.

 

“Any messages from Valentino?”

 

Angel’s brow knit as he stared at the screen.

 

“Yeah,” he muttered. “He’s… he’s not happy, Al. But signal’s basically non-existent here. The last message he sent got through just before we left the city.”

 

Alastor’s eyes round in alarm as a dawning realization struck. 

Chapter 58: 58

Alastor did not rush homeward.

 

He remained in the hotel suite a little longer, letting the quiet space give his suspicions room to breathe. His mind churned in looping circles. Husk lingered with him, seated near the table while Alastor paced with restless precision. The Beta listened carefully as the doe outlined each thought.

 

Husk offered what insight he could. 

 

“I’ve seen him toy with that phone on the regular,” Husk admitted, scratching absently at his jaw. “Just messin’ with it between talkin’ to folks.”

 

Alastor paused mid-pace, ears twitching. “And how does he behave when I’m present?”

 

Husk shrugged. “He usually stows it away. I figured he was tryin’ to be polite. Ya know - givin’ you his full attention.”

 

But the statement didn’t soothe Alastor.

 

It only deepened the pit blooming inside him.

 

Because Angel never used to hide anything from him. Before everything, Angel had been perfectly comfortable scrolling, texting or tapping away even with Alastor in the room.

 

Alastor had assumed that due to a lack of ‘proper signal’, there was simply no point in using such a device.

 

But perhaps that had been a mistake.

 

A dangerous one.

 

His anxiety whispered that the Vees had not acted recklessly. They hadn’t gambled Angel’s whereabouts. They wouldn’t have left the Omega so vulnerable without a contingency plan - and without one, they risked losing both their Omegas with no leverage left to reclaim.

 

The Vees were many things.

 

But stupidly reckless was not one of them.

 

Alastor’s thoughts drifted toward another uncomfortable truth:

 

They had counted on his disinterest in technology.

 

A familiar ache pulsed behind his temples.

 

Angel had arrived at the castle that day with his purse.

 

And within that purse - his phone.

 

Which meant something could have been inside. 

 

A tracker? A signal relay? A… vial?

 

The memory slammed into him again.

 

Vox’s voice had slid through the room like a blade:

 

“Angel Dust… you silly little thing. Did you truly forget about the vial?”

 

Alastor had barely processed it then. Too focused on protecting Angel and confronting the immediate threat. But now? Now the word rang like an alarm bell. Angel had behaved normally afterward, yes - sweet, affectionate and more tender than ever before. But that affection had bloomed within the safety of Lucifer’s walls.

 

Not under the Vees’ scrutiny.

 

Not with Vox hovering inches away.

 

Alastor’s claws curled slowly. 

 

He stopped pacing.

 

Husk straightened in his seat.

 

“We need to return to Morningstar Castle,” Alastor said, voice quiet but edged with steel.

 

Husk nodded immediately.

 

“Yeah,” Husk said. “Figured that was comin’. Let’s get movin’, Al.”

 

Because whatever the Vees had left behind - … 

 

It was already in motion.

 

And Alastor intended to reach Angel before anything else did.

❧

Their return to the castle was unceremonious.

 

Nothing had changed in their absence, despite the horrors Alastor had endured only hours before. The stillness of the halls almost mocked the ache in his body.

 

His neck remained a mess of teeth marks and bruising, the skin tender beneath the fresh bandages Husk had carefully applied. His clothes smelled of wine and his attire was slightly rumpled from being slipped back into after the bath.

 

But he held his posture as though nothing were wrong.

 

He stepped into the main hall with Husk at his side. The imps stationed nearest bowed their heads immediately. 

 

“Welcome back, Master Alastor. Master Husk.”

 

Alastor forced himself to brighten his smile, his usual elegance strained around the edges.

 

“Where is Angel Dust?” he asked.

 

“In the gardens with Mistress Niffty.”

 

“Lovely,” Alastor replied, giving a polite nod. “Thank you. Husk - let’s go.”

 

Their pace, outwardly, was measured.

 

But once they turned a corner their steps quickened with unspoken urgency.

 

They did not go to the gardens.

 

Not yet.

 

Instead, they diverted abruptly, slipping into Angel Dust’s personal quarters without knocking. The moment the door shut behind them, the tension coiled tighter. 

 

Husk’s nose twitched the instant they crossed the threshold.

 

He inhaled deeply, scanning the scents.

 

Angel Dust’s natural sweetness was layered atop everything present within the room/ 

 

Alastor moved alongside the feline, both falling into a silent, methodical rhythm. They checked drawers, shelves, under pillows and cushions, behind the vanity and within the wardrobe. Husk even sank to a crouch to check beneath the bed.

 

Everything was exactly where it should have been.

 

Everything except - 

 

“The purse?” Husk muttered.

 

“Gone,” Alastor said.

 

“And the phone?”

 

“Also gone.”

 

It wasn’t surprising.

But it was deeply unfortunate.

 

They would not find answers here.

 

Alastor’s jaw tightened, his fangs pressing sharply against the inside of his cheek. Husk straightened, watching him closely.

 

“We’ll have to go to him directly,” Alastor said.

 

Husk nodded once. “Yeah. Figures.”

 

They exited the room and moved down the hall. The castle’s corridors stretched long and serene, but with every step Alastor felt an uncomfortable sensation spike within his personal depths. 

 

By the time they reached the final turn that led to the garden entrance, his heart was beating faster with expectation. 

 

A terrible, tightening expectation.

 

Husk placed a hand on his arm. 

 

“You good?” he murmured.

 

“No,” Alastor answered, honestly. “But I’m prepared.”

 

And then they stepped out into the gardens.

 

His gaze swept the space once and then stopped. 

 

Angel Dust stood near a rose trellis with Niffty, animatedly recounting some story or joke. His gestures were big, emphatic, his laugh bright. Niffty was giggling, hands clapping together. The scene was almost painfully normal.

 

Innocent.

 

Safe.

 

But Alastor froze.

 

Because while Angel laughed - 

 

His purse was looped neatly over one arm.

 

And the phone sat neatly tucked into the side pocket.

 

Husk exhaled slowly beside him. “There he is.”

 

Alastor’s jaw worked in silence. His eyes narrowed just slightly as his ears flattened in a restrained, telling motion. The sight of Angel hit him with a complicated rush of relief and dread all at once. He lifted one claw subtly and angled it downward without looking away.

 

“Out of sight,” he uttered, softly. 

 

“Outta mind,” Husk replied, slipping out of sight. 

 

Alastor drew a careful breath and schooled his body into stillness. He took a moment to smooth the turbulence in his scent. A hint of stress would be expected, given the fresh bandage wrapped around his neck. Anything more would raise suspicions. 

 

Then he began to approach. 

 

Angel lifted his gaze first, and beside him Niffty brightened immediately - both of them waving, though Niffty’s was far more enthusiastic.

 

“Hey, Al!”

 

“Alastor!” Niffty chirped brightly.

 

“Good morning, you two,” he replied with practiced cheer. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

 

Niffty immediately launched into an animated explanation of her latest discovery within King Lucifer’s personal arsenal - a dizzying array of bladed weapons hidden away in secured vaults. Apparently, one of the guards had given her and Angel a brief tour. She spoke with shining eyes and rapid gestures. 

 

Alastor released a polite hum, nodding along as if genuinely enthralled, though his attention scarcely lingered on her words.

 

It was Angel he watched.

 

“Angel?”

 

The Omega’s gaze snapped back to him fully and he smiled.

 

The sight struck Alastor with an almost painful surge of fondness. Angel looked beautiful in the filtered light of the garden - off-white blouse soft against his skin, black trousers hugging long legs just right and lustrous fur perfectly catching the light.

 

For a heartbeat, Alastor wanted nothing more than to forget what he had come here for.

 

“I wanted to discuss something with you,” he said, gently.

 

Angel tilted his head a fraction, amusement curving through his expression. 

 

“What about, Al?”

 

Alastor’s eyes flicked once to the purse looped over Angel’s arm.

 

“I wanted to see your phone.”

 

The Omega blinked.

 

Once.

 

Twice.

 

Then he smiled again, unbothered. 

 

“Sure, Al.” 

 

Alastor felt the smallest thread of tension ease from his chest.

 

Angel reached for his phone without hesitation, slipping it smoothly from his purse and placing it into Alastor’s waiting hand. There was no reluctance. No flicker of guilt. Just easy compliance.

 

That, more than anything, made his stomach twist.

 

Alastor tapped in the code and unlocked the device.

 

The screen lit.

 

Messages were open.

 

Recent.

 

Too recent.

 

His eyes narrowed as he scrolled.

 

Vox.

Valentino.

Vox again.

 

Time-stamped within minutes of one another. 

 

His breath shallowed.

 

Information was being relayed in real time - locations, movements, routines. Husk. Niffty. The castle. Their present sector of the gardens. Everything fed forward with precise, devastating efficiency.

 

They hadn’t been followed or tracked. 

 

They’d been reported.

 

For one terrible instant, Alastor couldn’t feel his hands.

 

Then - 

 

A click.

 

Followed immediately by a thin, piercing squeak of startled breath.

 

Alastor looked up slowly.

 

Niffty was in Angel’s arms.

 

She was pinned hard against his chest, her tiny body locked in place by his grip. One of his hands was wrapped tight around her shoulders. The other held a small gun, the cold metal pressed directly to her temple.

 

Niffty’s eye was wide. 

 

Angel’s smile did not waver.

 

“We’re goin’ back home, Al,” he crooned. 

 

There was a strange tenderness in his voice - warped and distorted by something far more dangerous than affection ever was.

 

“We’ll be a family again.”

 

His grin stretched wider.

 

“Just like old times.”

Chapter 59: 59

“Angel.”

 

The world collapsed inward.

 

Nothing existed beyond the narrow distance between them - between Niffty’s trembling form and the gun pressed to her temple. It wasn’t some crude weapon torn from a thug’s hand. It was sleek. Built for precision rather than spectacle.

 

A professional piece.

 

Alastor had never seen Angel wield a firearm before.

 

But Valentino had always favored guns.

 

The lesson, it seemed, had been passed on in secret.

 

“Yes, Al?”

 

The words were soft. Almost affectionate.

 

It made his stomach twist.

 

“This isn’t you,” Alastor began.

 

Every word now was a step through a battlefield he could not see. One wrong syllable, one shift too fast and everything would detonate.

 

“Put the gun down,” he said. “And we can talk. Properly.”

 

Angel’s smile did not budge.

 

“We both know that ain’t happenin’,” he replied. “What’s gonna happen is you and I are gonna walk outta here real quietlike. And then we’re goin’ back home. Simple as that.”

 

“That place is not our home, Angel.”

 

Angel laughed at that.

 

“And this is?” he snapped, sobering abruptly. “The Devil’s literal fuckin’ castle? Do you even have a home anymore, Al?”

 

Alastor didn’t answer.

 

His jaw tightened. His ears twitched, betraying him.

 

Angel tilted his head slowly, the motion almost gentle. 

 

“You abandoned the only thing you ever had,” Angel said. “You abandoned everything. You abandoned the Vees. You abandoned me - ”

 

“I didn’t have a choice, Angel -”

 

“Oh, fuck that!” Angel barked. “Yes, you did! You cared more about pissin’ off Vox and everybody else than you ever cared about me!”

 

The words cracked across the garden like shattered glass.

 

Angel’s face twisted with raw emotion - grief bleeding into fury, fury bleeding into something ugly and wounded.

 

“Do you even know what it was like?” he demanded. “You were gone for months. Months, Al. Nobody knew where the hell you were. But we both know now, don’t we?”

 

A bitter laugh ripped out of his throat.

 

“While I was bein’ fucked and bound and pissed on you were sittin’ up here in the lap of fuckin’ luxury.”

 

Alastor’s eyes slid closed.

 

He took a slow, shaking breath.

 

Angel had never spoken this way to him before.

 

Never turned that pain outward.

 

Had it been hiding all this time?

 

Or had something fed it?

 

“I’m…” Alastor began, carefully. “I’m sorry you felt that way, Angel. I was trying to come back to you.”

 

Angel sneered.

 

“You think that changes a damn thing? I stood by you for thirty years, Al. Thirty. I cleaned you up. I backed you up. I bled for you. And what do I get?”

 

His eyes burned as he laid Alastor’s vulnerability bare before the world.

 

“Do you realize how fucked your position is?” Angel hissed. “I don’t give a shit how powerful that staff is. You’re one Omega. That’s it. That’s all either of us ever was - and ever will be.”

 

Alastor’s ears flattened completely.

 

“I - ”

 

“Shut up!” Angel shrieked. “Shut the fuck up!”

 

His voice suddenly smoothed into something cold and level.

 

“You’re so damn stubborn,” he continued. “When I told you to mate with Adam. Or with Lucifer. When I told you it was the safest play - you refused. Even when it meant keepin’ yourself safe. Even when it meant keepin’ me safe.”

 

Angel’s stare was merciless.

 

There was nothing playful in it now. It was sharp enough to flay. Alastor held himself rigid beneath it, forcing his breathing to remain steady as Angel dismantled him piece by piece with every word.

 

“Do ya know what they’re callin’ you on the feed, Al?” Angel demanded. 

 

The calm in his voice was worse than the shouting had been.

 

“They’re callin’ you Lilith.”

 

The name hit like a brand.

 

“They’re comparin’ you to the only Omega in history who managed to tear Hell clean in half just to crawl out from under Lucifer’s shadow. Is that what you’re tryin’ to be now? Huh? The next person who burns everything and everybody just to make a point?”

 

His grip on Niffty tightened just enough to make the message unmistakable.

 

“Because that’s what you’re doin’,” Angel continued, voice trembling with restrained fury. “You put Niffty at risk. You put Husk at risk. You put me at risk. Everyone you claim to care about is stickin’ their neck out for you while you run headfirst into every damn blade pointed your way!”

 

His laugh came out raw and fractured.

 

“You call it ambition. You call it survival. But from where I’m standin’? It’s just selfishness.”

 

Alastor shut his eyes.

 

He drew in one slow, measured breath.

 

And for the first time since the gun had been drawn, the faintest tremor passed through him.

 

“Do you know what angelic weapons are, Alastor?”

 

The question slid into the space between them with deliberate calm.

 

Alastor’s eyes opened.

 

“Vaguely,” he answered.

 

Angel lifted the gun just a fraction. 

 

“You see this piece right here?” he said, softly. “The ammo’s crafted from materials harvested from the war itself. From the battlefield where angels and demons tore each other apart. That kind of material doesn’t just wound, Al.”

 

His grip on Niffty did not loosen.

 

“If I pull this trigger she doesn’t reform. She doesn’t come back screaming in a few years.”

 

His smile cut thin and terrible.

 

“She’s gone.”

 

For the first time since the confrontation began, Alastor’s composure fractured. His expression tightened, jaw locking as his breath caught in his throat. It wasn’t fear for himself.

 

It was the knowledge that Niffty would not return.

 

That this was real.

 

“Do you understand, Al?” Angel asked softly.

 

There was no warmth in it.

 

He pressed the barrel harder against Niffty’s temple. 

 

Alastor’s hands curled at his sides.

 

Silence stretched.

 

“I said, do you fuckin’ understand, Al?”

 

The raised voice snapped across the garden like a crack of thunder.

 

Alastor swallowed.

 

“I understand, Angel.”

 

Angel’s smile returned. 

 

“Good.”

 

He shifted Niffty minutely, angling her closer to his chest, ensuring the gun was still perfectly aligned with the softest point of her skull.

 

“Now,” Angel continued, voice dropping back into a horrible, lilting calm, “how ’bout we get goin’, huh? Vox’ll be waitin’ - ”

 

Angel’s hand that carried the weapon fell - cut cleanly off. 

 

It happened so abruptly that the mind struggled to keep pace with it.

 

A card followed.

 

Darkened at the edges and wet with his blood. It struck the ground a heartbeat after the gun - silent proof of the precision that had ended the threat in a single, unnervingly clean motion.

 

Niffty was released.

 

She collapsed downward with a startled cry as Angel screamed in raw shock and fury.

 

“Fuck! What the fuck!”

 

Alastor did not hesitate and surged forward. 

 

He slammed into Angel with brute force, driving him off balance as they crashed together in a snarl of limbs and fury. They went down hard, the garden’s calm shattering around them as teeth snapped and hands clawed for leverage. 

 

They grappled viciously - rolling, striking and scrabbling for dominance as fury boiled over into something feral and unrecognizable.

 

Alastor reeled as Angel’s teeth clamped down hard on his shoulder - the pressure sharp enough to stagger him, a burst of pain flaring bright under his skin. At the same time, Angel’s claws raked across his midsection in frantic, scrambling motions, wild rather than precise. The struggle was no longer tactical. It was panic wearing the shape of violence.

 

Before Alastor could fully regain leverage, Husk was there.

 

The feline moved with startling economy. He seized Angel around the middle, hauling him back with a vicious yank that tore the two Omegas apart. His other arm swept up and locked around Angel’s throat, the motion practiced  brutally efficient.

 

“Husk - ” Alastor started, but the chokehold was already set.

 

“This is necessary,” the feline grit out.

 

Angel thrashed but Husk’s grip did not loosen. His arm tightened incrementally, expertly restricting the airflow without crushing anything outright. Angel’s struggles went from wild to sluggish, the fight bleeding out of him in shaking breaths. Moments later his limbs slackened entirely, his body going limp in Husk’s hold.

 

Then he was still.

 

Husk lowered him carefully to the ground.

 

Alastor staggered back a step, rising unsteadily to his feet. His hand pressed over his shoulder, not to stifle any wound, but as if grounding himself. His eyes flicked between Niffty and the crumpled form of Angel Dust lying unconscious in the grass.

 

The gun  - along with Angel’s hand - lay several feet away, faintly glinting in the garden’s filtered light.

 

There was silence now. 

 

Thick, uncanny silence.

Not the peaceful quiet of the Morningstar gardens but the heavy, breathless stillness that follows catastrophe. 

 

Husk exhaled once, low and strained.

 

Alastor drew in a breath that shook ever so slightly.

 

Everything around them was suddenly, terrifyingly still.

Chapter 60: 60

“You need to eat, Angel.”

 

Alastor had been coaxing him for days now with soft words and patient hands. It was a gentle persistence that never tipped into force. Angel took water when it was pressed to his lips in careful sips, but food remained untouched. Broth cooled in its cup. Even the smallest bites were ignored. 

 

With each passing day, he grew a little weaker, his body mirroring the slow collapse happening inside his mind.

 

The spider’s once-lustrous fur had dulled, its sheen replaced with a brittle, tired flatness. There was a permanent heaviness beneath his eyes now - deep shadows that no amount of sleep could fully erase. And he did sleep. Often. But he woke each time feeling just as hollow and frail as before, as though rest no longer knew how to reach him.

 

His hand had been expertly reattached. The stitching was immaculate, the magic precise. Functionality was slowly returning, but sensation came in uneven waves - first numbness, then a crawling, prickling discomfort that made him flinch whenever he became too aware of it. The rejoined flesh was still tender, sensitive in a way that made even the brush of fabric feel wrong.

 

He had been bedridden when he woke.

 

And when his mind finally snapped back into itself, the memories came with it.

 

All of them.

 

Every word he had hurled at Alastor.

Every accusation.

Every slice of venom he hadn’t even known he possessed.

 

Worst of all was that brief, devastating flicker of hurt he had seen on the doe’s face before everything broke apart.

 

It destroyed him to know that some of what he had said had been rooted in miserable truth. And that the rest had been engineered. Forced into him until rage and betrayal felt natural in his mouth. The most unbearable part wasn’t just that he’d been made to turn on them.

 

It was that he could no longer be certain which thoughts were truly his.

 

The doubt hollowed him out.

 

Angel Dust had almost hurt them.

 

Niffty.

Husk.

Alastor.

 

All of them had nearly been dragged back into the Vees’ grasp by his own hands - by his own mouth, smiling as he did it. The guilt sat so massive and unmovable in his chest that he welcomed his own slow wasting away.

 

If he was weak enough, he couldn’t hurt anyone.

 

If he was weak enough, maybe he could finally be harmless.

 

He didn’t remember when Vox had done it.

 

He didn’t remember how deep it went.

 

He didn’t know if it could ever truly be undone.

 

What if it was permanent?

 

What if he himself was now the danger?

 

Some nights, in the quietest hours before exhaustion claimed him again, the thought crept in uninvited:

 

Maybe I should go back to them.

 

If he returned to the Vees willingly, at least Alastor would be safe.

 

Away from him.

 

It wasn’t fair how little time they’d been given. How briefly they’d been allowed to be close before everything shattered. But maybe this was the cost of it. Maybe this was always how it had been meant to end.

 

And yet - 

 

Despite the risk.

Despite the threat he now believed himself to be - 

 

Alastor never left his side.

 

He sat beside him for hours at a time. Sometimes in silence. Sometimes with soft, idle observations meant only to anchor Angel to the present. He took Angel’s hand gently in his own, his grip steady and reassuring rather than possessive. 

 

When Angel cried - and he did, quietly, often - Alastor wiped the tears from his face with tender care, as though each tear were something sacred rather than shameful.

 

“Nothing you did is your fault, Angel,” the doe had said, blotting at his damp lashes with a handkerchief. “I know this more deeply than you can imagine.”

 

But the comfort never quite reached far enough.

 

Not yet.

 

Husk tried, too - standing at the doorway with his arms folded tight across his chest, voice rough with restrained worry. 

 

“You weren’t in your right mind,” he said once. “Ain’t fair to hang that on yourself.”

 

Niffty climbed onto the bed one afternoon and patted Angel’s arm with both tiny hands, smiling as brightly as she could manage. 

 

“It’s okay, Angel! We’re not mad at you! Not at all!”

 

He wanted to believe them.

 

He truly did.

 

But believing felt dangerous now.

 

So instead, he lay there among his cushions and blankets, eyes unfocused on the ceiling above, letting the days blur together as he drifted in and out of uneasy sleep  - held in place by grief, by fear and by the terrible weight of knowing how close he had come to destroying everything he loved.

 

And still - 

 

They stayed.

❧

Angel Dust dreamed, on occasion. 

 

The dreams were kind to him in a way reality no longer was. In them, all four of them were simply… away. Not hiding, not waiting for the next catastrophe - just gone from the pressure of Hell, Heaven and everything that watched and judged between. They lived somewhere quiet and ordinary, where days passed without spectacle and nights fell without threat.

 

A place with soft light and unremarkable walls; where no one demanded performance and no deals were made. They were a family there - an actual one. Niffty filled the space with her tireless brightness, Husk lingered at the edges with his steady, unspoken protection and Alastor - Alastor smiled without strain. 

 

He didn’t have to fight. He didn’t have to scheme. He didn’t have to measure every breath against survival. He could just be happy. 

 

And in those dreams, Angel was allowed to be his without secrecy or fear. They could touch without flinching, kiss without watching doorways and lie together without wondering who would pay the price later. No judgment hung over them. No chains waited in the shadows. It was peaceful in a way that hurt to imagine.

 

But even inside the dream, doubt always found him. How could he make Alastor happy? How could he ever be enough for someone who carried so much weight, so much ambition and so many enemies? How could he be more than… 

 

The King’s voice tore through the dream without mercy.

 

“You’re fucking useless otherwise.”

 

The words crashed into his mind with brutal clarity, shattering the quiet fantasy in an instant. And the most devastating part wasn’t that the voice existed there at all - it was that some part of him agreed. The belief settled deep and heavy in his chest. Even Niffty - a Beta -  had more measurable worth, more visible purpose than he did. He was just a soft, broken Omega who wanted the unforgivable thing of loving in peace.

 

“Angel?”

 

His eyes fluttered open.

 

Reality rushed back in with all its weight intact.

 

Alastor stood beside the bed, a small platter cradled with careful hands. A warm bowl of broth rested on it, steam faint as it curled into the air. His posture was gentle, as though even standing too suddenly might frighten Angel. 

 

“It’s time for your meal,” the doe murmured.

 

He’d settle, dip the spoon and lift it slowly to Angel’s lips, each movement patient to the point of reverence. Angel’s mouth tightened. His face twisted faintly and he turned his head away. The spoon hovered for a moment before Alastor quietly drew it back. A soft, restrained sigh escaped him. 

 

Shame flooded Angel instantly.

 

He was disappointing him again. 

 

Hurting him again.

 

Tears welled without warning, slipping hot and helpless down his cheeks. 

 

He didn’t sob but the quiet, broken weeping returned all the same. Alastor set the food aside at once, the handkerchief already in his grasp. He wiped Angel’s face with tender, practiced care; his touch endlessly patient as though this, too, was something he would endure without complaint. 

 

One hand settled at Angel’s cheek, thumb brushing slow, soothing arcs as he leaned close.

 

“You’ll be alright, my Angel,” he whispered.

 

The words were gentle. 

 

Unshakeable in their devotion.

 

But Angel, trembling beneath the crushing weight of what he had done and what he feared he might still be capable of, could not bring himself to believe them.

❧

Angel Dust rose in the middle of the night. 

 

It was the first time in days that he did so of his own volition, without coaxing or hands guiding him upright. The movement was painfully slow.

 

His reattached hand throbbed dully, nerves misfiring in uncomfortable pulses that made his fingers twitch without permission. When he tried to steady himself, his legs wobbled beneath his weight. He made it only a few steps before collapsing into a soft, graceless heap of fur and limbs on the floor. 

 

For a moment, he stayed there, breathing shallowly - then forced himself up again with shaking resolve.

 

He wore a simple nightgown, off-white and soft, the fabric meant for comfort. It did little to fend off the persistent chill that lived in the castle after dark. Cold crept along his furred skin and into his bones as he moved. Quietly, almost guiltily, he slipped from his room, closing the door with painstaking care so as not to disturb anyone. 

 

The corridors were dark. 

 

Not entirely but dim enough that shadows gathered thickly along the walls and ceiling. He navigated by memory as much as sight, wrapping his arms around his trembling frame as he walked a path he had walked before. 

 

Once, Adam had guided him this way. Now there was only the echo of that memory and the hollow sound of his own bare steps.

 

The castle was unnervingly still during its resting hours. Too still. 

 

Angel expected to reach the massive doors and find them unmoving and sealed, the way they should have been at such an hour. He expected silence. 

 

But as he drew closer, something felt wrong.

 

There were no guards.

 

The absence struck him belatedly, like realizing a sound had stopped long before you noticed it was gone. He slowed, staring up at the towering doors, uncertainty pooling in his chest. For a moment, he hesitated - then turned as if to retreat, doubt finally clawing at him.

 

And then the doors opened.

 

They parted slowly, heavy and deliberate, revealing the Throne Room beyond. It was lit not by grand chandeliers or blinding radiance - but by fire alone. Torches burned along the walls. Candles flickered in quiet clusters, their flames casting long, wavering shadows across the floor.

 

Angel blinked in stunned disbelief.

 

“You may enter, Angel Dust,” a familiar voice announced.

 

There was something in that voice - something hungry beneath its polished calm.

 

It beckoned.

 

Angel Dust hesitated only a heartbeat longer.

 

Then he stepped inside.

Chapter 61: 61

Lucifer reclined across the throne in a posture so casual it bordered on insolence. Yet it did nothing to diminish the oppressive aura that clung to him like a mantle. He lay almost horizontally, his head propped lazily against one carved armrest while his legs dangled over the other. 

 

The King of Hell swung one foot idly, gaze drifting along the ceiling as if bored by his own domain. His eyes lightly shut, his breaths slow. 

 

Angel approached him on trembling legs, hands clasped before him in an instinctive gesture of prayer or surrender. He moved slowly, too aware that haste would only send him crumpling. 

 

When he finally reached the foot of the throne, he descended into prostration. It was a stiff, fragile bow that wavered with each shaky breath. His forehead pressed against the cold, immaculate marble as his limbs trembled under the strain.

 

“Rise, Angel Dust.”

 

The command was effortless, yet it carried the weight of a divine decree. Angel obeyed, first to his knees. 

 

“All the way.”

 

The quiet instruction made his stomach twist. He forced himself upright, breath thin and ragged, but managing to remain standing through sheer will.

 

“Now,” Lucifer murmured, rearranging himself into a more proper seated posture. 

 

He still lounged, draped across the throne with a dancer’s casual elegance. His gaze slid down toward Angel, crimson eyes hooded with polished, aristocratic boredom. 

 

“Tell me why you’ve come to me at this hour.”

 

The question was simple. The answer was not.

 

Angel’s mouth opened, closed.

 

“I - Your Majesty -  I…”

 

Lucifer exhaled sharply. Not loudly - but with enough pointed irritation to cut. Angel jolted as if struck.

 

“Do you realize,” Lucifer drawled, “that you have put all of your little friends at risk?”

 

Angel’s vision blurred as his eyes burned in their sockets.

 

Lucifer continued, voice velvet-smooth and merciless. 

 

“You carried your little curse into my walls. You fed countless secrets into the Vees’ eager mouths. All because your mind” - his lips curled - “was too weak to resist the hand wrapped around it.”

 

Angel’s breath hitched. He swallowed. And then, slowly, quietly:

 

“Did you… know?”

 

Lucifer tilted his head. 

 

“Know what, ‘my Angel?’”

 

The term struck like a slap. A private phrase. Intimate. Not meant for him. Angel stared up at the King, trembling with dawning realization.

 

“You knew,” he whispered. “You knew.”

 

Lucifer’s laugh erupted bright and cruel, echoing through the cavernous chamber. 

 

“Of course I knew. The moment you entered my castle you reeked of that Alpha’s meddling. And I am always watching, you see.”

 

His grin sharpened, beautiful and venomous.

“You disgusting little spy.”

 

Angel’s face contorted in anger - in shame. 

 

“Oh? Is that a glare?” 

 

Lucifer’s amusement deepened. 

 

“How precious.” 

 

His gaze roamed over Angel. 

 

“Even Niffty possesses more backbone than you. More restraint. More character. It’s almost tragic.”

 

Angel’s eyes fell to the floor, throat tight and fingers curling tightly. 

 

Lucifer leaned forward, languid as a serpent repositioning itself.

 

 “Now. I will repeat my question. And I expect an answer. Is that understood?”

 

A shallow nod. Barely a dip of the chin.

 

“Good.”

 

Silence briefly settled, heavy and expectant.

 

“Tell me why you’ve come to me at this hour.”

 

Angel swallowed once. 

 

Then:

 

“I… want to help Alastor.” 

 

His voice cracked, but he steadied it. 

 

“I don’t want to be useless, Your Majesty.”

 

Lucifer’s brows rose a fraction. 

 

“Oh? Continue.”

 

“My head…” 

 

Angel struggled for breath, grounding himself.

 

“Because of me, Husk, Niffty, Alastor - everyone - is in danger. Because I wasn’t strong enough to fight what they did to me. And that can’t… can’t happen again.”

 

He lifted his chin slightly. 

 

“I can’t just be something they protect..”

 

“I see.” 

 

Lucifer tapped a manicured finger against his chin in absent contemplation. 

 

“You want power.”

 

“I want to help Alastor,” Angel corrected, softly. “And if power is what I need to do that… then yes.”

 

Lucifer’s smile unfurled slowly, elegantly. 

 

“You ask me to free you from your natural limits. To sever the strings tied to your mind and body.”

 

Angel hesitated before nodding.

 

“I want to be free of the Vees’ control,” he whispered. “Completely.”

 

A soft, dangerous hum left Lucifer’s throat.

 

“How very interesting.”

 

The Omega held his breath as Lucifer went silent. Not an impatient silence but a contemplative lull woven from ancient authority and something colder. His gaze drifted somewhere distant, his fingers lifting to tap idly against the carved armrest as if weighing the cost of a favor against the amusement it might bring him.

 

When he finally spoke, the throne itself seemed to resonate.

 

“I can grant you that desire.”

 

Angel Dust’s head snapped up. For a moment hope flared across his features. A hope built not on arrogance, but desperate yearning. 

 

Lucifer’s smile deepened.

 

“But,” he continued, lightly, “to commit to such a deed means I must ask something of equal weight in return.”

 

The world seemed to constrict around Angel’s ribs. His shoulders rose and fell on a thin, tremulous breath.

 

“My cleansing is not a petty trick, Angel Dust,” Lucifer informed, shifting his posture with unhurried grace. “What your mind suffered is intricate. Valentino and Vox have always been meticulous with their little toys.”

 

Angel flinched before he could stop himself.

 

“And so,” Lucifer pressed, his tone turning honeyed and predatory all at once, “what you ask for is not something a Sinner could grant you. Not something a spell, a serum or whispered promise could rectify.”

 

He tilted his head and the weight of him intensified. Even the air seemed to tighten, as though the castle itself obeyed his posture.

 

“But I,” he said with smooth relish, “am a King.”

 

The words rang with finality.

 

“My will naturally overrides their own. If I choose to lay my power upon you, your mind and body will be yours again.”

 

Angel’s breath caught. 

 

Lucifer leaned forward slightly, eyes burning with amused cruelty.

 

“But,” he repeated, quieter now, “cleansing you is only the first half of your request. You also seek strength. Capacity. A fortification of the mind and spirit to prevent such violations from ever taking root again.”

 

He paused long enough for Angel to feel the weight of what was coming.

 

“That,” Lucifer purred, “means partly rewriting what you are. Who you are.”

 

Angel felt the hairs along his neck rise. His fingers twitched helplessly at his sides.

 

Lucifer smiled wider.

 

“And so the price you must pay,” he concluded softly, almost tenderly, “will be significant.”

 

Angel swallowed, throat tight and his voice barely above a breath.

 

“W-What kind of price… Your Majesty?”

 

Lucifer’s eyes gleamed, delighted by the tremor he heard.

 

“That,” Lucifer whispered, “depends entirely on how badly you wish to aid your dear Alastor.”

 

Angel Dust’s breath hitched. His gaze dropped instinctively to the polished floor. His fingers  soon curled in the fabric of his nightgown, mind racing toward possibilities he feared to articulate.

 

Lucifer let the silence steep.

 

“You’re rather fond of him, aren’t you?” The King’s tone was almost conversational. “That much is obvious. Even your corrupted little mind radiates it. I notice the way you look at him. The way he looks at you.”

 

Angel swallowed hard.

 

“What are you willing to do for ‘love,’ Angel Dust?”

 

The Omega flinched - and froze.

 

Because the King was no longer upon the throne.

 

Lucifer now stood before him, impossibly close with hands clasped neatly behind his back like a gentleman at leisure. His grin split his face like something carved.

 

Angel stepped back automatically, trembling.

 

“How far,” Lucifer crooned, peering up at the Omega, “are you willing to go to aid your beloved’s journey?”

 

A cruel gleam burned in his crimson eyes.

 

“You Omegas,” Lucifer continued, straightening with a smooth, predatory motion, “are so tragically vulnerable to emotion.”

 

Angel’s chest tightened painfully.

 

“It hampers Alastor,” Lucifer went on, tone sharpening. “It gnaws at him. It weakens him. In the way he bends for you without truly noticing… in the way he clings to a thing he denies.”

 

Angel blinked, startled. “D-Denies?”

 

Lucifer laughed, the sound rich with scorn.

 

“He loves Vox.”

 

The words fell like a shattered blade between them.

 

“What a fucking joke. Despite everything. He does.”

 

Angel recoiled as if struck. His throat tightened, breath stuttering, confusion warring with horror.

 

Lucifer tilted his head, studying his trembling with practiced delight.

 

“Oh, my sweet spider,” he crooned, tone dripping with venomous affection, “you didn’t think you were the only complication in his heart, did you?”

 

Angel’s vision blurred. His pulse throbbed painfully in his temples.

 

Lucifer stepped closer, the tips of his boots whispering over marble.

 

“So tell me,” he whispered, “what price will you pay to ensure Alastor never breaks under the weight of the world… or under the memory of the man who owned him first?”

 

A beat.

 

“Show me your resolve, Angel Dust.”

 

And the King waited for the Omega’s answer.

 

“Everything.”

 

The word escaped him before he could think to throttle it.

 

Lucifer stilled.

 

Then, with a feline slowness, he cocked his head to the side. His eyes narrowed to amused slits, glowing faintly in the half-light.

 

“Oh?” he cooed. “How intriguing.”

 

Angel Dust’s throat bobbed. He sucked in a breath that shuddered all the way down to his trembling knees.

 

“I’ll… I’ll offer everything I have.”

 

Lucifer’s grin sharpened. 

 

“And what is it that you think you possess, little Omega?” he mused. “Your body? Your soul? Some ill-defined scrap of loyalty you believe carries weight?”

 

He clicked his tongue.

 

“A common offer from your kind. You Omegas cling to the idea of sacrifice like it gives you value.”

 

Angel flinched.

 

Lucifer leaned in.

 

“Will you become mine?” he asked. “Just as Alastor belongs to me?”

 

Angel’s breath hitched. He froze, mind blanking - until his eyes widened, pupils dilating with sudden, dawning horror.

 

Belongs.

 

Belongs.

 

His mouth fell open, the word trembling out like a cracked whisper.

 

“... Oh. Oh.”

 

Lucifer’s laughter unfurled, deep and delighted. 

 

“He didn’t tell you,” the devil purred. “How predictable. It is his greatest shame, of course.”

 

Angel’s stomach twisted, violently.

 

“He came to me,” Lucifer continued, pacing around him in a slow, languid circle. “Begging for aid. Begging to be uplifted. Pathetic. Beautiful, in a way. And so not unlike what you’re doing now.”

 

Angel’s breath grew short, labored.

 

“That’s not -  Al wouldn’t - ”

 

Lucifer cut him off with a low, rumbling sound. 

 

“You Omegas truly excel at begging,” he murmured. “It flows so naturally from you. Down on your knees - such an enticingly familiar posture.”

 

Angel’s vision blurred with humiliation and rage and helplessness all at once.

 

“Stop - ”

 

“But it pleased me,” Lucifer continued, ignoring him entirely. “And so I uplifted him. And gave him the power he so desperately desired.”

 

He stepped before Angel again, looking upon him like a man regarding a lovely, broken thing.

 

“And you,” he whispered, reaching and gingerly caressing Angel’s face, “you want the same salvation… don’t you?”

 

Angel didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

 

Lucifer smiled.

 

The Omega’s breath fractured.

 

And then he spoke. 

 

“… Yes.”

 

The King smiled.

 

Lucifer extended his hand toward him with flourish. It was the gesture of a gentleman before a ballroom waltz… or a guillotine’s final escort.

 

Angel stared at the offered hand. His heart thudded painfully. His fingers twitched.

 

And then he placed his trembling hand into Lucifer’s.

 

Lucifer lifted the hand with deliberate slowness.

 

And bent.

 

His lips pressed to the back of Angel’s furred knuckles. The kiss was polite in shape, obscene in intention. Angel felt the faint pull of breath, the brush of fangs veiled beneath regal restraint.

 

But what made his breath catch was the way Lucifer lingered.

 

The way he inhaled.

 

The way his mouth curved against Angel’s skin, teeth parting just enough for the Omega to feel the faint, wet heat of saliva beginning to gather.

 

A shiver wracked Angel’s spine.

 

Lucifer’s grin widened against his hand before he finally straightened, still holding Angel’s hand like a captured trophy.

 

“That’s a good pet,” he crooned, lovingly. 

Notes:

I shall annotate for reader peace of mind. Lucifer/Angel shall not be a pairing.

But!

I intend to weave the characters into one another. As I don't want them to be entirely disjointed from one another. And thus relationships and dynamics will be heavily varied and complicated.

Chapter 62: 62

“Your Majesty?”

 

His voice was steady, but only because he demanded it of himself. He had tamed the storm inside long enough to dress in a fashion he knew Lucifer found pleasing: a cinched waist, fabric that hugged his frame, subtle cosmetics to enhance softness and brightness and oils in his curls to make them shine.

 

A polished, perfected thing - an Omega dressed for display. 

 

The irony tasted bitter, but he swallowed it.

 

Lucifer lounged in his seating room when Alastor arrived. The King’s attire, as always, appeared effortlessly immaculate; riding trousers tucked into gleaming leather boots, a crisp buttoned shirt and sleeves fitted just enough to hint at elegance rather than strength. A book rested in his lap,  pages turned with leisurely interest.

 

Alastor paused as he took in the scene.

 

Lucifer did not look tense. Lucifer never looked tense. Even when ordering executions, he carried himself with that same relaxed indolence, that feline disinterest threaded through immortal arrogance. But Alastor had seen the truth beneath it. 

 

He approached carefully, every step measured.

 

Lucifer’s gaze rose, a slow, languid acknowledgment, as though he’d noted Alastor’s presence long ago and simply decided now was the moment he would deign to respond. 

 

A small smile curved at the King’s lips.

 

“Pet.”

 

“Your Majesty,” Alastor greeted. “May I join you?”

 

“Of course.”

 

He barely had time to settle beside the King before Lucifer closed the book and, with effortless strength and no hesitation whatsoever, pulled Alastor neatly into his lap. The doe’s eyes widened; his spine stiffened - but he did not resist. He simply steadied himself by placing a hand upon Lucifer’s shoulder.

 

“Is something amiss, my dear?”

Lucifer’s tone was gentle and for a dangerous, fleeting heartbeat, Alastor nearly forgot what sat beneath that voice. 

 

Nearly forgot what Lucifer was, what he had done, what he owned.

 

“I…”

 

His ears flattened; he breathed in, slow and controlled.

 

“I was thinking… about relocating from the Morningstar Castle to Husk’s estate.”

 

Lucifer blinked once. 

 

“Oh? And what prompted that?”

 

“I believe you’re aware of what brought it on.”

 

“Indeed.” Lucifer’s hand glided up Alastor’s thigh, his nails tracing lightly over the fabric. “But I’d rather you tell me.”

 

A shiver threatened to betray him but Alastor forced stillness.

 

“Your deal with… Angel.”

 

“Ah, yes,” Lucifer said, voice brightening faintly. “Angel. He was desperate to remedy his problem. And he succeeded. Just as you did months ago.”

 

“We would have handled it ourselves,” Alastor replied, his tone clipped. “Without your intervention.”

 

Lucifer scoffed. 

 

“Really, Alastor? How? By keeping him locked within these walls? By stripping him of every freedom so he couldn’t slip back into the Vees’ waiting arms? Or perhaps…”

 

His hand tightened on Alastor’s thigh. 

 

“…perhaps you would have traded another piece of yourself in exchange for cleansing him?” Lucifer tilted his head, studying him. “I wonder what Angel would think of such a choice. Not that you could have offered much. Every piece of you already belongs to me.”

 

And Alastor felt that anger swell again, the emotion barely contained behind the polite curve of his smile.

 

“Perhaps,” Alastor replied, tone flat. “It would have been dealt with, regardless.”

 

Lucifer let out a soft, dismissive snort. The impulse to rake his claws across that flawlessly sculpted face surged hot and sudden through Alastor’s veins. He quelled it instantly, folding that anger neatly behind his smile.

 

“So,” Lucifer drawled, “you wish to move into Husk’s estate?”

 

“Yes,” Alastor answered. “He is assured in his power and his territory provides ample space to accommodate Angel, Niffty, and myself.”

 

Lucifer’s lips twitched, amusement blooming slow and poisonous.

 

“And do you truly believe your cat can protect you while you rest?”

 

“I believe,” Alastor said, measured and careful, “that he and I can create a sufficient defense to ensure Niffty and Angel remain unharmed.”

 

“Hm.” 

 

Lucifer’s fingers tightened just slightly at Alastor’s thigh - just enough to make the dominance unmistakable, but not enough to bruise. 

 

“You underestimate your husband, pet,” Lucifer said. “You remain free partly due to my generosity.”

 

“And it has been greatly appreciated, Your Majesty,” Alastor replied. “You have made room for my people. And you tolerated the disruptions that followed.”

 

“Yes,” Lucifer mused, eyes half-lidded. “That little gun snafu was quite entertaining, I must admit.” 

 

His lips curled faintly. 

 

“It has been confiscated, of course. Angelic weapons are such unpleasant little things. Nasty. Difficult to dispose of. And Hell’s black markets are infested with them.”

 

Alastor blinked slowly.

 

Black markets.

Weapons from Heaven.

Lucifer spoke of them casually. 

 

Alastor had never fully grasped the breadth of the King’s influence. He had known Lucifer was powerful, yes - but this degree of economic omnipresence? Of absolute dominion over what lived, circulated, and corrupted his realm? He wondered, briefly, how tight Lucifer’s grip truly was. And how many places in Hell were free of that shadow.

 

Lucifer continued.

 

“You do realize,” he said, “that I must now account for Angel’s safety as well?”

 

“I can - ”

 

“No, pet.”

The interruption was immediate. 

 

Lucifer’s hand tightened at Alastor’s thigh, as though reminding the Omega what belonged to whom.

 

“The moment he gave me his soul,” Lucifer went on, “is the moment he became mine to protect. Mine to shelter. Mine to maintain.”

 

Alastor’s breath hitched. His jaw tensed.

 

“And I’m afraid,” Lucifer added, voice brightening with mocking sympathy, “that I find your proposed accommodations… deeply inadequate for ensuring the safety of both of you.”

 

Alastor felt something inside him coil tight.

 

“The arrangements would be temporary,” he attempted, voice steady. “Only until the threat from the Vees is - ”

 

“Mitigated?” Lucifer supplied.

His smile sharpened.

“Oh, my dear Alastor. You speak as though you hold the authority to determine what constitutes ‘safety’ for what is mine.”

 

Mine.

A word that applied to Angel.

 

That applied to him.

 

“Tell me,” Lucifer murmured, tilting his head. “Do you truly believe that little cat of yours can guard what even Overlords failed to contain?”

 

Alastor inhaled.

 

“I believe,” he said, “that Husk and I together - ”

 

Lucifer’s laughter cut through the air.

 

“Oh, pet.”

He placed one finger beneath Alastor’s chin. 

“Please. Don’t embarrass yourself.”

 

The room seemed to shrink around them.

 

Alastor felt his pulse drum in his throat.

 

Lucifer’s smile widened.

 

“You’re touching what belongs to me.”

 

The words rippled out of Alastor in a low, feral snarl. His patience, so meticulously curated, finally tore at the seams.

 

Lucifer went still.

 

“Belongs to you?” he echoed.

 

And then Lucifer laughed.

The sound was biting.

 

“Do you think,” Lucifer said, laughter softening into a dangerous smile, “that anything - anything at all - truly belongs to you?”

 

His tone dripped with polite derision. 

 

He shifted slightly in his seat, gaze gliding over Alastor with a clinical, penetrating interest. 

 

“Pet,” Lucifer continued, “aside from that charming mind tucked away inside that absurdly beautiful skull of yours… tell me, what exactly do you imagine you own? Nothing truly belongs to you.”

 

His fingertips brushed Alastor’s cheek.

 

“Not in Hell,” Lucifer began. 

 

His fingers trailed down the line of Alastor’s jaw, tilting it up slightly.

“Not in Heaven.”

 

His thumb skimmed the corner of Alastor’s lip.

 

“And certainly not in that sweet, antiquated era from which you crawled.”

 

The touch fell away.

 

“You,” Lucifer finished, voice low and immovable, “have no claim. To anyone.”

Lucifer’s smile sharpened.

 

Alastor trembled but the fury behind it was palpable, seething in waves beneath the polished veneer of his smile. His claws flexed uselessly, desperate for purchase and for something to tear into. Lucifer only watched the display with a sun-bright grin, his features crinkling in a genuine, almost boyish amusement. 

 

“There is,” Lucifer began lightly, “a place I will allow you to go freely for rest. If you desire it.”

 

Alastor stilled.

 

A long, slow pause stretched between them. 

 

“Vox’s estate,” Lucifer breathed, as though unveiling a decadent treat. “You may remain here… or you may return to your husband. There is no in-between. No third option. Nothing else I am willing to accept.”

 

“That’s not a fucking option, Lucifer,” Alastor snarled, his voice finally breaking through its cultivated restraint. 

 

“Oh, but it is, pet.” Lucifer’s voice softened, dripping with a faux sympathy that only deepened the humiliation. “Two very clear options, in fact.”

 

He treated Alastor’s building fury as though it were a harmless tantrum rather than a threat.

 

“If you are so eager to flee from my domain,” Lucifer continued, his tone almost bored, “then you will do so by crawling back to your husband and resting in his bed, rather than in the ones I have so generously provided.”

 

The words landed like a slap.

 

Crawling.

His husband.

Resting in his bed.

 

“And Angel,” Lucifer added, voice brightening, “is also welcome to that choice. I’m certain Valentino would be delighted to have him back.”

 

He laughed.

 

It was bright, sharp laughter filled with genuine mirth. As though the idea of Alastor’s nightmares made manifest were the punchline to a divine joke.

 

Alastor’s pupils blew wide.  Rage rose up through him so abruptly he nearly saw black.

 

Lucifer only reclined a touch, eyes gleaming.

 

“Careful now,” he murmured, lips curving. “Show too much emotion and someone might think you’ve forgotten your place.”

 

His fucking place.

 

The words ricocheted inside Alastor’s skull like bullets. Something primal surged forward - splintering through every layer of etiquette and every ounce of composure.

 

His hand rose before he even realized it.

 

A stupid action.

 

But instinct demanded violence. Demanded blood. Demanded that he do something, anything, to wipe that smug, poisonous smile off the King’s face.

 

His palm cut a sharp line through the air but it never found its mark.

 

Lucifer’s hand closed around his wrist mid-strike.

 

Crack.

 

Pain exploded through Alastor’s arm, tearing a gasp straight from his throat. 

 

“This is the second time you’ve defied me, pet.”

 

And then he was shoved.

 

Pushed off Lucifer’s lap with enough dismissive force to send him tumbling. The indignity of it somehow hurt nearly as much as the wrist itself. Alastor hit the floor in a graceless heap of limbs and curled immediately around the ruined joint, a choked, guttural sound escaping him before he could swallow it down.

 

Lucifer rose.

 

Every line of his small frame radiating dominance so complete it bordered on obscene.

 

He looked down at the Omega trembling at his feet.

 

“Your request,” the King said, smoothing a hand down the front of his shirt as though brushing away the last remnants of Alastor’s defiance, “has been denied.”

 

He paused.

 

A glimmer of amusement flickered across his immaculate face.

 

“And should you attempt to leave my domain without explicit permission…”

 

 His eyes sharpened to razors.

“…I will break far more than your wrist.”

Chapter 63: 63

Notes:

This is a pretty chill chapter overall. A light bridging between events.

The next chapter will be interesting.

As it'll be Adam's POV.

Angel prodded gingerly at Alastor’s bandaged wrist, the pads of his fingers barely brushing the tender skin. Even so, the doe winced, a quiet hiss slipping between his pointed teeth. Angel withdrew instantly, guilt flickering across his face before he leaned in again. 

 

“How long ’till the King lets you out?” Angel asked, his voice soft. 

 

“Until after my heat,” Alastor replied, leaning back against the pillows with a weary sigh. “Yours is due sometime after, if I recall.”

 

Angel snorted and flopped beside him, their shoulders brushing.

 

“Yeah. Val’s gonna be real pissy about that.” 

 

But Angel was different now. 

 

Alastor could feel it and see it the moment the spider Omega entered a room. The pink streaks beneath Angel’s eyes had blossomed into small, blinking eyes of their own; tiny white pupils shifting and darting with uncanny alertness. It should have been unsettling, yet Angel carried it with a strange, burgeoning confidence. According to him, the change had been disorienting at first… then liberating.

 

He felt stronger.

As though his senses had been remade - from smothered and muddled into something comparatively superior. 

 

Most importantly, his mind was his again. 

 

“They were planning on using me to get you back,” Angel had confessed earlier, voice low. “A trap. All of it. They knew more than they fuckin’ let on.”

 

There was no denying it. Angel’s insight now carried a terrifying accuracy. He seemed to perceive things differently, like a creature half-suspended between instinct and logic. And as they sat together on the bed, Alastor couldn’t help wondering what, exactly, the cost of Lucifer’s gift had been. 

 

How their souls, now both marked by the devil, might factor into some larger, unseen design.

 

“Best not to piss him off going forward,” Angel muttered, breaking Alastor’s spiraling thoughts.

 

“That man is infuriating beyond comprehension,” Alastor replied, dryly.

 

“He’s the devil, babe. ’Course he is. But…” 

 

Angel nudged him gently. 

 

“He lets you do your work. And he don’t ask much. Yet, anyway. Coulda been way worse.”

 

“He doesn’t ask much for now,” Alastor countered, eyes narrowing. “How long before he turns his gaze toward Niffty? Or Husk? I’m left with the distinct impression that he wants more than just you and I.”

 

“Hey, hey,” Angel murmured, shifting closer, cupping Alastor’s face in all four hands. “We’ll be fine. We’re stickin’ together through this. The Vees don’t stand a chance if we’re all on the same page.”

 

Alastor released a tense breath, though he visibly softened under the gentle cradling of Angel’s palms. Angel always had a way of cutting through his spiraling thoughts. 

 

“Let’s focus on your mission,” Angel soothed. “We’ll worry about Lucifer after.”

 

“We won’t focus on much of anything until my heat is over,” Alastor sighed.

 

“You still spendin’ it with Adam?”

 

“I am.” His tone was resigned but not conflicted. “I could manage it alone, but he’s a serviceable Alpha, and I’m bound by our deal.”

 

Angel hummed thoughtfully. 

 

“Would you ever spend it with Lucifer?”

 

Alastor scoffed. 

 

“I’d rather spend it with Husk.”

 

Angel’s lips twitched upward. 

 

“It wouldn’t be the worst idea, ya know. Lucifer’s old as dirt so he’s probably real experienced. But Husk…” 

 

A contemplative gleam sparked in Angel’s many eyes.

 

 “…Husk wouldn’t be the worst choice either. Think he’d be interested in either of us?”

 

“You could ask him,” Alastor suggested. 

 

“We could spend it together,” Angel suggested suddenly, grin widening with mischief and hope alike. “Just you ’n me.”

 

Alastor considered it.

 

“That’s not a terrible idea.”

 

Angel lit up instantly, his whole face brightening as though someone had switched on a light inside him.

 

“Yeah?” he breathed.

 

“Yes,” Alastor replied, lips softening into a rare, genuine smile. “Truly.”

 

Angel melted against him, curling around the doe with an ease that only came from decades of shared history, shared pain and now shared freedom. Their limbs tangled naturally and for the first time in days, they both felt something peaceful settle in their chests.

❧

Angel had been encouraged to continue correspondence with the Vees. As had Husk. Both were to maintain the illusion that all was well - that Angel remained entangled in their spell  and that Husk was blissfully unaware he’d been compromised weeks ago.

 

It bought them time. Time to puzzle out a way to turn every hidden wire back against the trio who had woven them. But they all knew the margin for error was thin. 

 

“I intend to strike back for that little… event in the hotel,” Alastor announced, breaking the silence that had settled over the dining hall. 

 

The table before them was set with steaming dishes. Though only Niffty seemed particularly interested in eating. 

 

“And I’m comfortable with allowing Husk to sever ties with the Vees afterwards. He’s not someone who can be easily snuffed out at this point.”

 

Husk let out a low grunt, stabbing his fork into a piece of meat. 

 

“Damn straight.”

 

But the tension lining his voice was unmistakable.

 

“Angel,” Alastor continued, his tone level, “reiterate what they were planning.”

 

Angel dabbed absently at his mouth with a napkin. His new eyes shifted independently, surveying corners of the room even as he spoke. 

 

“When we were ‘out,’ I was supposed to dose you. The vial had enough to keep you sluggish for hours. Long enough for me to keep you tied up and quiet. It was supposed to be timed around the end of the seven days. And once the timer was up - they’d personally swing by. That was the plan.”

 

“An order established before I spoke with them personally then,” Alastor said. “Which means the command chains circumvent the deal’s ‘third-party’ stipulation.” 

 

He tapped a claw against the table. 

 

“They prepared that failsafe long before the meeting.”

 

Husk leaned back, rolling his shoulders. “So do we play it like the plan’s still workin’? ’Cause if so, we gotta account for who they’ll pick to come collect you two.”

 

“Likely Vox and Valentino,” Alastor said. “They handled the previous retrieval attempt. It stands to reason they’d replicate the system.”

 

“And what if Vel shows,” Angel questioned. 

 

Alastor’s lips curved into a sharp, satisfied smile.

 

“I’ve been preparing for just that.”

 

Angel blinked at him, all eight eyes narrowing. 

 

“Oooookay, that’s ominous. You mind elaboratin’?”

 

“In due time,” Alastor replied, leaning back with deliberate ease. “But suffice to say… it will be handled.”

 

Husk snorted. 

 

“You’re gettin’ that look, Al. The ‘I’ve got somethin’ nasty planned and I ain’t sharin’ yet’ look.”

 

“That’s because I do, Husk,” Alastor said sweetly. “And because you’ll all need to play your parts properly.”

 

Angel gave a small laugh. 

 

“That’s fine. Just tell me the where and when. I’ll be ready, Al.”

 

The table fell into a thoughtful quiet, the air thick with tension and anticipation. Each of them felt the weight of what was coming. 

❧

They fell into a comfortable rhythm in the days that followed. A small, steady harmony that settled around the four of them. And Alastor found, to his surprise, that it was… good.

 

Good in a way he scarcely remembered. 

 

It felt as though someone had granted him a fleeting reprieve before the inevitable storm. One final breath of calm before the confrontation he knew would be turbulent and deeply personal. 

 

And yet beneath the quiet, beneath the ordinary routine of planning and small shared meals and the soft murmur of conversation, he could not tamp down the thrill rising in his chest.

 

Finally he could move.

He could act.

 

He could present himself as more than a skittish Omega fleeing the whims of a trio who had once plucked him apart and molded him into their image.

 

He could remind Vox that he was not a piece of property waiting to be reclaimed.
 

He could demonstrate, beyond question, that he would not be toppled so easily.

 

And yet, when he looked upon the small ensemble gathered at his side - Angel, pacing with new confidence; Niffty, fussing with a knife with a gleaming eye; Husk, looming but protective - his chest warmed in a way battle-readiness alone could not explain.

 

He felt assured.

 

He had gathered individuals who regarded him not as a possession but as an equal. As a leader. As a partner in this strange, tenuous rebellion they’d built together.

 

No one else had ever granted him that dignity.

 

Vox had adored him, in his way, but sought always to put him in his place. To reshape him into the perfect Omega of his fantasies. Valentino had taught him to “perform,” Velvette to “dress” and Vox to “obey.”

 

But these three?
 

They respected his independence. They relied on his judgment. They believed in his capability. And they valued him beyond the shape of his body or the heat in his blood.

 

And this grounded him more effectively than any chain Lucifer had ever wrapped around his soul.

 

What would he have been without them?

 

The answer struck him like a blow.

 

Trapped. 

 

Still in Vox’s shining tower. A quiet, docile spouse. An Omega swollen with children. He could envision it too clearly - the slow fading of his spark, the gradual clipping of his autonomy. The person he once was dissolved beneath layers of comfort and sweet-smelling obedience.

 

He would have been tamed.

 

And without Lucifer’s intervention he would have remained there. 

 

The thought alone was insufferable.

It sickened him.

 

That he owed anything to the devil’s hand was a bitterness he could scarcely swallow. Lucifer had freed him from one cage only to lock him in another. A looser one, perhaps. A gilded one. But a cage all the same. 

 

The cost of that freedom was a chain he could never remove.

 

And yet…

 

As he watched Angel laugh softly at something Niffty said; as Husk glanced over with that gruff, unspoken ‘Are you okay?’ that somehow always reached him when he needed it most - 

 

Alastor thought, perhaps for the first time in decades:

 

I am not alone.

 

And that, more than any power Lucifer had offered, felt like salvation.

 

❧

 

Vox lounged in his seat as though he owned not just the office, but the entire city trembling beneath its neon glow. 

 

His long legs were crossed, his shoulders relaxed, and yet his projected eyes burned bright with calculation. His claws were steepled loosely beneath his chin as he leaned forward over his desk. 

 

“How’s correspondence with Angel?” he asked, his voice mild. 

 

Valentino sprawled across the chaise near him, idly twirling a cigarette holder between two fingers. 

 

“Same as usual, papi. Our little spider’s still singin’ the song we taught him. Everything’s going accordingly.”

 

“And that strange pause?” Vox pressed. “He went quiet for days.”

 

Valentino shrugged, tapping ash into a crystal tray. 

 

“Apparently someone got suspicious. So he had to play ‘dead’ for a bit. Lay low till things cooled off. But he’s back on script.”

 

Across the room, Velvette’s eyes narrowed, lashes lowering. She perched on the edge of the couch, phone in hand, though her attention was squarely on Vox.

 

“And the cat?” she asked, her tone clipped. “If we’re going to do this right, he could be a problem.”

 

“You and Valentino will be dealing with him personally,” Vox replied, not bothering to hide his irritation. “I don’t take kindly to being made a fool.”

 

Valentino gave a wicked grin. 

 

“We killin’ him or what? He’s a big fish, baby. Bigger than most. He won’t go down clean.”

 

“He’s salvageable,” Vox said, claws drumming once against the desk. “Strong and worth keeping around. And beloved by my wife. When Alastor’s back where he belongs, Husk becomes leverage. A leash he’ll feel every damn second of.”

 

Velvette’s mouth curled into a slow, pleased smile at that. 

 

“I like it. Hurt him with the few Sinners willing to keep him around.”

 

“Exactly.” 

 

Vox rose from his seat, pacing with the easy confidence of someone who already saw the future laid bare before him.

 

“And our ‘secret weapon’?” Velvette asked.

 

Vox stopped walking. 

 

Turned.

 

And smiled, bearing his projected teeth. 

 

“Oh,” he purred, hands sliding into his pockets. “They’re ready.”

 

Valentino’s grin widened and Velvette’s eyes gleamed.

 

Vox tilted his head, projected static flickering briefly across his face.

 

“Alastor won’t see it coming.”

 

Chapter 64: 64

Adam was ancient. 

 

Older than kingdoms, older than scripture and older than the first written memory carved into stone. He was the first man to walk the earth and the first Alpha to ever draw breath. His soul was the mold from which every Alpha thereafter had been shaped; all their fury, their strength and their stubborn brilliance traced back to him. 

 

History’s most luminous figures - kings who carved nations out of wilderness, queens whose names sparked dread or reverence centuries after death, generals who commanded armies large enough to eclipse the horizon - descended from his line. 

 

The legends of their might were, at their core, echoes of him.

 

When he crossed into the heavenly realm upon death, Heaven received him not as another soul, but as a paragon. They granted him a position befitting his myth. His bloodline thrived on both sides of the veil, for even Hell bent under the inherited gravity of his name. 

 

The Blessing of Adam clung to his descendants like a mantle of inevitability -  guiding them toward renown, toward greatness and toward history.

 

Even Heaven was not free of earthly hierarchies. 

 

It mirrored the living world with a disturbing fidelity. Its rigid structure honored Alphas, tolerated Betas and endlessly confined Omegas beneath the Curse of Eve. Betas bore the Burden of Cain, a metaphysical shackle that dulled ambition and stunted their spiritual growth. Bliss did not equate to freedom. Even in paradise, destiny was prescribed and deviation was a sin.

 

Adam accepted this, for the system favored him and his lineage. His children prospered in Heaven and Hell alike and he took pride in the legacy that bore his name.

 

Yet none of that greatness mattered when Lilith begged Heaven for intervention.

 

That plea changed everything.

 

It should have been ignored. It should have been dismissed as the desperate cry of a woman who had once defied Heaven’s order. But she had been his first to wife. The first Omega to ever rise beside him. And though she had abandoned him for Lucifer millennia ago, her voice still carried a weight Heaven could not easily cast aside.

 

They listened to her cry.

 

And because they listened, Heaven marched to war.

 

Adam remembered every moment of it with agonizing clarity. Lucifer’s second rebellion had already begun, but Lilith’s betrayal poured accelerant into a growing blaze. 

 

The Morningstar had been planning for ages, amassing Sinners and Hellborn alike, whispering promises of autonomy, of liberation and ascension beyond Hell. But what he truly desired was power. His fall had not humbled him; it had sharpened him into something ruthless and magnificent in equal measure.

 

He had always been cruel before his descent. But Hell amplified that cruelty. The suffering of others delighted him. The suffering of those who loved him delighted him even more. And Lilith had tasted enough of that cruelty to turn her desperation into treachery.

 

She exposed him.

 

She revealed every intention he’d been nurturing in the shadows; his secret armies, his plan to tear open Heaven’s gates and his desire to seize celestial power that had never been meant for a fallen king. In exchange for delivering his ambitions wrapped in betrayal, Heaven sought to cleanse and restore her - offering her a place among the redeemed, along with her small daughter.

 

And Lucifer seethed.

 

The war that followed cracked the realms.

 

Heaven’s armies descended in torrents of divine light; Hell’s legions surged upward in tides of shadow and flame. 

 

Adam remembered the battlefield - recalling wings blackening in celestial fire, angelic blades slicing through demonic bone -  the world trembling beneath the weight of two impossibly vast forces colliding. 

 

The screams of the fallen echoed across dimensions. 

 

And at the center of it all stood Lucifer Morningstar.

 

Smiling with malicious glee.

 

He waged that war not out of grief of being cast into the pits.

 

He waged it because someone had denied him power.

 

And Lucifer vowed that he would never again allow himself to be diminished.

 

Not by Heaven.

 

Not by Hell.

 

And certainly not by whomever would dare to defy him.

 

The war consumed everything.

 

The eternal deaths were countless - souls snuffed out so completely that nothing remained. Angels perished in white-hot bursts that scarred the sky; demons were obliterated in torrents of celestial fire that cracked Hell’s bedrock. The combatants who fell were not merely killed - they were erased. Blessing and curse alike offered no protection. 

 

Heaven’s chosen and Hell’s damned vanished in equal measure.

 

And when Lilith was taken along with her tiny daughter Lucifer’s rage became something apocalyptic. It was no longer a conflict. It became a tantrum of a god; a seismic, realm-splitting fury that devoured everything in its path. 

 

His rage was utterly grotesque. 

 

And Hell and Heaven trembled beneath the weight of it.

 

And then Adam confronted him.

 

The first man. The first Alpha. Heaven’s chosen son. A being whose name alone once demanded reverence across two realms.

 

He faced Lucifer not as a warrior of Heaven, but as a man fulfilling a duty older than scripture.

 

Their clash shook the realms.

 

Heaven, recognizing the inevitable escalation, began to close its gates. The celestial passageways sealed one by one, shutting with the sound of thunder inside a hollow world. 

 

The connection between Heaven and Hell - once thin but present - was severed with a startling, mournful finality. The war was forced into absolute stillness.

 

From that moment on, no one would climb into Heaven except through death and judgment. No ascension. No rescue missions. No divine intervention. Paradise became an island in an endless storm, its gates sealed against the chaos below.

 

And Adam… was left behind.

 

He had fallen to Lucifer’s hand. Brought low by a king who had once been an angel of impossible beauty. 

 

He expected death.

 

The first man believed his story would end on that battlefield, swallowed by divine fire or abominable shadow.

 

But Lucifer had other designs.

 

Death was too kind.

 

And he demanded recompense. 

 

So he imprisoned him.

 

He made Adam suffer - made him endure torments so precise, so intimate and so artfully crafted that centuries blurred into an unending nightmare.

 

Lucifer twisted him beyond recognition, peeling away pieces of him with open relish. He warped his mind, his spirit, his sense of self - reshaping the first Alpha into something broken, obedient and humiliated.

 

Time became meaningless.
 

Pain became constant.

 

By the time Lucifer dragged him back into public sight - forcibly reborn as a Fallen Angel - the man who once walked through Eden as Heaven’s favorite son had long since been unmade.

 

Only the weapon remained.

 

❧

 

When Adam first laid eyes on Alastor, something shifted inside him. The Omega’s presence tugged at something ancient, something buried beneath centuries of torment and humiliation. The doe’s soul glowed with a curious luminance and his scent - 

 

His scent made him visibly pause. 

 

It wasn’t Lilith’s. Not truly.

 

But it held the same structure - the same layered fragrance and undercurrent of defiance that spiced the scent. 

 

Most Omegas reminded him vaguely of Lilith or Eve, pale imitations whose frailty soured whatever phantom nostalgia he might have felt. But this one… this one was different. His scent bit at the edges of Adam’s nerves, as though demanding recognition.

 

And he boasted her fire.

The same infuriating spark.

The same maddening, intoxicating defiance that made him want to dominate.

 

It enraged him.

It enticed him.

It confused the fractured thing his mind had become.

 

Why him?

Why this strangely familiar Omega?

Why did every instinct surge toward possession?

 

Adam did not understand it. He did not like that he did not understand it. This draw toward Alastor was something primal and ugly - something he hadn’t felt since…

 

His suspicion toward the similarities only intensified over time. 

 

It solidified the moment Lucifer’s gaze fixed upon Alastor with unmistakable interest. Lucifer had never gazed at Lilith with tenderness, but he had gazed at her with hunger. 

 

A territorial hunger. 

 

A possessive one.

 

That same look now glinted in the devil’s eyes whenever it lingered upon the doe.

 

❧

 

Adam blinked awake slowly, pupils contracting as consciousness threaded back into him. The world came into focus in soft gradients of warmth and scent - heat-heavy air, rumpled sheets and the faint drifting sweetness of an Omega deep in cycle. And above him, framed by tousled curls and morning light, was that face.

 

Alastor looked down at him with that practiced smile of his - warmed by the closeness between them. His claws rested lightly upon Adam’s chest, tapping in idle, teasing patterns. 

 

“You talk in your sleep,” Alastor drawled, his tone dry but not unkind.

 

Adam grunted, stretching until his spine popped. 

 

“Yeah?”

 

“And you snore. Like a hog. It’s irritating.”

 

Adam laughed, warm in a way he rarely allowed himself to be. 

 

“Sorry, babe.”

 

Before Alastor could shoot back with something polite and sharp, Adam’s hands slid up his waist, thick fingers curling possessively. In one fluid motion he rolled them over, pinning the Omega beneath him, their bodies sinking into the disarrayed sheets. 

 

Alastor huffed, ears twitching, but he didn’t fight it.

 

Adam lowered his head to the curve of the doe’s throat. His breath ghosted over heated skin before he pressed his face there, inhaling deeply. The scent coated his tongue in something maddeningly familiar. His claws kneaded lightly at the Omega’s hips. His teeth grazed the older scars, testing boundaries - almost hopeful.

 

“Adam,” Alastor snapped. 

 

“Yeah, yeah,” he rumbled, though he didn’t immediately pull away. 

 

His mouth lingered at the Omega’s neck for a moment longer, reluctant. 

 

“I still don’t see why you’re keepin’ that ugly mark. Timer’s tickin’, sweetheart. You’ll be nice and sweet for that fuckface Sinner soon enough.”

 

Alastor’s smile thinned. 

 

“That is none of your concern.”

 

Adam lifted his head then and stared down at him. His gaze drifted over Alastor’s features, tracing the elegant lines of his cheekbones, the defiant shape of his mouth and the fire behind those crimson eyes.

 

Adam dipped down once more, his movements slow and deliberate. His hips shifted forward, the renewed hardness of his arousal pressing gently against Alastor's tender entrance. The doe gasped softly, the sensitive folds still slick with the remnants of their earlier union, his fur damp with shared heat.

 

“Oh!” 

 

With a patient roll of his hips, Adam let himself glide forward, the head of his cock slipping past resistance and into the warm, yielding heat of the Omega’s body. Alastor sighed, breath catching on the edge of pleasure. Adam paused, savoring that exquisite sensation - how tight and perfect Alastor felt around him; how naturally his body welcomed him in again.

 

“Mm. Adam…” 

 

Alastor’s legs shifted, thighs parting wider in surrender and Adam felt the Omega’s body respond instinctively - wrapping around him with a trust that made his chest tighten. He began to move, slow and measured, letting each motion draw out the moment. A low rumble of satisfaction vibrated in his chest, his eyes fluttering closed as he rocked into him.

 

Alastor took him beautifully, his breath shallow and voice soft and broken with quiet moans. Adam stayed close, drinking in every sound, every shiver and every subtle tightening of muscle. 

 

He wasn’t in a hurry. 

 

He wanted to feel everything. 

Chapter 65: 65

Alastor and Angel Dust had spent decades as ornaments. Glittering additions to the Vees’ entourage and displayed as living trophies. They were posed and paraded. Any movement outside the narrow script they were given was corrected or smothered beneath expectation. They were allowed to shine only in ways that reflected on their keepers.

 

And so the simple act of walking down the street without an escort and stepping into a venue without Vox or Valentino’s shadow draped over them was nothing short of intoxicating. The freedom felt wrong at first. But with each passing night, the weight lifted just a little more, and the sensation became something warm. 

 

And then euphoric.

 

Tonight was no different. Angel Dust sagged against Alastor’s side in a loose, drunken lean. The club around them pulsed with lights and sound; bass shaking the floor and neon painting their fur in shifting tones. They were pressed into a booth and for the first time in ages they were simply present. 

 

Simply two Omegas living their lives without fear of the Vees’ gaze.

 

Angel had thrown himself into the night with unrestrained abandon. He danced like he was trying to make up for years of stolen time - hips rolling and limbs graceful despite the intoxication. His outfit left little to the imagination and yet for once it wasn’t meant to entice anyone but himself. 

 

Alastor watched him with something like wonder. 

 

Angel Dust truly lived. He thrived beneath the thrum of music. And in this moment the spider was breathtaking. His confidence was genuine now and no longer a performance coaxed out under Valentino’s hand. His beauty was for himself. His joy was for himself.

 

Alastor took a measured sip from his flask, savoring the warmth. 

 

He remembered Husk’s disapproving look as he tucked it into his coat earlier. The feline’s low, grumbling warning about “not gettin’ sloppy again.” Alastor had waved him off with that airy charm of his, promising moderation. Husk had stared long enough for the promise to feel weighted. Still shaken from Vox’s earlier sabotage, the Overlord didn’t take chances with Alastor’s vices anymore.

 

Alastor kept it light. He owed Husk that much … and he owed himself even more.

 

Angel collapsed beside him once moreand Alastor’s arm rose instinctively - steadying him. Angel melted into the contact, giggling against his shoulder as the music throbbed around them.

 

“Enjoying yourself?” Alastor asked. 

 

“Yeaaaah,” Angel purred. “You should come out an’ dance, Al.”

 

Alastor’s smile sharpened with amusement. 

 

“I’d rather not. It’s not exactly my style. But you enjoy yourself.”

 

Angel huffed an exaggerated pout before dissolving into laughter, rolling his eyes as though Alastor were hopeless. But he didn’t press. 

 

The nights blended together - clubs, dingy dive bars, glamorous casinos and late dinners where they lingered over shared dishes. They walked through the streets without fear. 

 

Without Vox’s tracking. Without Valentino’s chains. Without Velvette’s voice in their ears. Sometimes Angel looped their arms together and sometimes Alastor let his hand rest at Angel’s back, guiding him gently through a crowd. It was easy. Like breathing for the first time after years of drowning.

 

They were, for a brief sliver of time, exactly what they should have been: two citizens of Hell simply living their lives.

 

But days passed. 

 

Too quickly.

 

And with each one that fell away, Angel Dust grew quieter for moments - glancing at the date, fiddling with his sleeve and tapping his claws against the table. The joy remained, but beneath it simmered an anxiety that tightened the corners of his eyes.

 

Because they both knew the week was drawing to a close.

 

❧

 

Angel Dust sent the message with a flick of his thumb. The kind of update Vox had been waiting for for months. A simple confirmation he craved. 

 

And as soon as it was sent, Angel lifted his gaze and crafted the kind of smile that had once charmed millions through a camera lens. 

 

Alastor met it with the faint, glassy warmth of someone drifting. His pupils were slightly relaxed. His posture loose and his eyelids half-mast. The very picture of a doe slipping comfortably into intoxication. Exactly as he needed to be as he partook in his drink. 

In truth, the flask held nothing but water. 

 

But Angel had reported that he’d emptied the tasteless contents of the vial into it hours prior. That he’d swirled it in with practiced ease. And that he’d done it without Alastor ever noticing.

 

And the Vees’ cameras caught every sip Alastor took. 

 

Angel Dust leaned forward, touching Alastor’s knee - the motion affectionate… but meant to be seen. 

 

“Ya doin’ okay, sugar?” 

 

His voice was light, teasing, laced with a concern that looked painfully real.

 

Alastor allowed his head to lull slightly toward Angel’s hand. 

 

“Ah… yes, my dear… simply feeling the evening’s indulgences.” 

 

His voice carried that perfect mix of brightness and syrupy slur. His usual cadence softened, the edges blunted. Just the right amount of compromised.

 

If Vox reviewed the footage he’d see precisely what he wanted to see.

 

Angel adjusted his position, leaning in close enough that his mouth nearly brushed Alastor’s ear. For the cameras, it was an intimate whisper. In truth, it was strategic.

 

“You’re convincin’ me, babe,” he whispered. 

 

His breath shook but his smile never wavered.

 

Alastor’s claw tapped lightly against the flask in a slow rhythm. 

 

“Good. Let them believe what they will.” 

 

His tone remained low and deceptively soft.

 

Angel shifted subtly, scanning the room for hidden lenses - his extra orbs shut tight to conceal their presence. 

 

“They’re watchin’,” he breathed.

 

“I’m counting on it,” Alastor replied, lifting the flask for yet another “drink.”

 

His throat bobbed in a swallow that never drew more than cool water. 

 

Angel Dust leaned into him, nuzzling the side of his jaw for show. 

 

“You’re playin’ this real good,” he murmured. “They’re gonna eat this up.”

 

Alastor’s smile sharpened by a fraction - too small for cameras, too subtle for anyone but Angel to see. 

 

The pet spider guiding his beloved Alastor back into the Vees’ grasp.

 

The lovely doe stumbling ever closer to capture.

 

A perfect narrative. 

 

A perfect trap.

 

“Another sip?” Angel cooed, lifting the flask toward Alastor’s lips with a flourish that bordered on theatrical.

 

Alastor accepted it, blinking slow and dazed as he brought it to his lips. 

 

❧

 

“C’mon, sugar. You’re alright now.”

 

The night lights chased them into the open air as they took leave of the club; Alastor leaning heavily into Angel’s side, seeming barely able to manage his own balance. His hooves clicked unevenly. His breath came in slow, fluttering waves. His head lolled just enough to sell the illusion that his senses had been swallowed by the vial’s contents.

 

It was an exquisite performance. 

 

Angel Dust led him down a narrow side street and eased him into the shadows of a nondescript alleyway. Angel lowered him with practiced gentleness, arranging him against the wall so he looked beautifully defenseless.

 

“You sit here now,” Angel whispered.

 

Alastor’s eyes drifted half shut, his breathing slow and fogged. A picture-perfect sedated Omega.

 

Angel Dust retrieved his phone, hands shaking just enough to appear fraught and made the call. His voice was light and properly subdued. The conversation was brief, a handful of words before the line went dead.

 

And then the alley fell silent.

 

Angel paced. 

 

And paced again. 

 

Long, restless strides carrying him up and down the narrow corridor. 

 

An hour passed.

Then another.

 

Alastor continued to play his part with flawless restraint, his posture loose and his expression emptying into that perfect daze. But every tick of time sharpened his anticipation. He could feel the moment approaching.

 

At last the low rumble of a vehicle sliding to a stop followed by the thump of a door.

Footsteps. Singular.

 

He’d expected two.

 

Angel froze mid-stride, nerves crackling across his silhouette.

 

Then Vox’s voice threaded into the alleyway. 

 

“Wonderful, Angel Dust. You did exactly as expected.”

 

“T-thank you, Vox.”

 

“Mm.” 

 

It was a pleased, dismissive hum.

 

And then that scent poured around him. Vox’s presence pressed close - invasive as it had always been. Familiar enough to tighten something in Alastor’s chest. Old conditioning stirred, urging him to sit straighter and obey.

 

He didn’t. Instead he sagged further, feigning helplessness.

 

A claw hooked beneath his chin. Slowly, Vox angled his face upward.

 

“Look at me, sweetheart.”

 

Alastor let his eyelids flutter. When they parted, his crimson gaze was glassy.. 

 

Vox smiled down at him, the bright static glow of his eyes flickering with hungry satisfaction. 

 

“That’s my Omega,” he crooned, thumb stroking Alastor’s cheek. “Everything is so much easier when you don’t fight.”

 

His touch lingered, that thumb tracing the line of Alastor’s jaw with a mock tenderness that nearly made the Omega shudder. Alastor forced his eyes to slip shut again, fearing that even a fleeting glimmer of awareness in his gaze would betray the ruse. 

 

Vox drank in the moment, savoring it like a long-anticipated triumph. He was finally reclaiming what had been “stolen” from him.

 

“Vox?” 

 

Angel Dust’s voice broke the quiet, pitched somewhere between nervous compliance and careful politeness.

 

“Yes, Angel?” 

 

A thin edge of irritation wound through the Alpha’s tone. He did not appreciate interruptions especially not when his prize was within reach. 

 

“Is - uh - Val coming?” 

 

Angel ventured, scratching lightly at his arm in an anxious tic he knew Vox expected.

 

Vox exhaled sharply through a static filter, dismissive. 

 

“I’m afraid he didn’t come along,” he said, smoothing his claws down Alastor’s cheek. “But I wouldn’t concern yourself too much, sweetheart.”

 

Alastor’s ear twitched before he could stop it.

 

A tiny, barely there motion.

Yet Vox’s touch stilled on his face for half a second too long, as though savoring the involuntary response.

 

A spike of unease rippled through the Omega’s chest. But he kept his body slack.

 

Angel Dust swallowed. 

 

Then his attention shifted fully back to the doe at his feet.

 

“Time to get you home.”

 

He bent forward with a slow, savoring grace. Likely already imagining the weight of Alastor in his arms, the limp compliance and the sweet inevitability of reclaiming his runaway Omega. His claws slid under the doe’s jaw, preparing to haul him upright - 

 

But the alleyway darkened.

 

A thick tendril of shadow slithered from below, rising out of the grimy cement like a living thing. It coiled around Vox’s ankle with silent precision. The Alpha stiffened, his screen flickering in momentary confusion as he glanced down.

 

“What - ?”

 

That single instant of distraction was all Alastor needed.

 

Just as he had years ago  - back in the choking confines of the limousine, when he tested the limits of defiance - Alastor moved.

 

But this time, his body didn’t respond with the fragile strength of an Omega.

 

It responded with the force granted to him by Lucifer himself.

 

Alastor’s leg snapped up in a clean, brutal arc - his hoof cracking across Vox’s face like a gunshot. The point of impact struck dead-center on the Alpha’s projected screen, the  visage spiderwebbing with cracks.

 

The impact sent Vox reeling backward, staggering as static burst violently across his display.

 

For one beautiful moment, the alley held its breath.

 

Then Vox’s distorted face reassembled itself in flickering fragments, rage boiling beneath the fractured glass.

 

Alastor’s eyes snapped open, every trace of feigned sedation gone.

 

He smiled.

 

A real smile.

 

Cold and triumph  Radiant with controlled wrath.

 

Finally, after months of idling - he’d be granted another opportunity to fight. 

 

“Good evening, Vincent,” he purred.

Chapter 66: 66

Vox staggered back several paces, shoes scraping against the alley’s slick pavement as he created distance between them. 

 

The spiderwebbing across his screen flickered violently before beginning to mend, pixels knitting together beneath Alastor’s steady gaze. The Alpha straightened slowly, rolling his shoulders as though shaking off an inconvenience rather than a blow meant to shatter him.

 

“Clever bitch.” 

 

There was no explosion of rage. Instead, he laughed.

 

“Well, I’ll be damned. Who would’ve thought the hypnosis broke?” He clicked his tongue. 

 

Alastor rose fully to his feet, posture sharp and deliberate. Shadows curled at his heels as his staff manifested in his grasp with a familiar, comforting weight. Vox’s eyes flicked to it immediately.

 

“Ohhh, there it is,” Vox drawled, tone almost fond. “You know, Alastor… this whole little delusion of grandeur you’ve been indulging in?” 

 

He tilted his head. 

 

“It’s gonna end real ugly for you.”

 

“Is it?” Alastor replied, coolly.

 

“’Fraid so, baby. I mean - let’s be honest for once.”

 

Vox gestured lazily toward Angel Dust, who had retreated a few steps back, extra eyes narrowed.

 

“All you’ve got is the whore,” Vox continued, voice dripping disdain, “a washed-up cat and yourself. That - and…”

 

His gaze slid back to the staff.

 

“That pretty little toy in your hands.”

 

He clasped his hands behind his back, posture straightening into something unmistakably smug.

 

“Strip all that away and you’re still just an Omega,” Vox said. “Playing dress-up. Pretending you’re something you were never meant to be.”

 

He paused, studying Alastor’s face.

 

“So tell me,” Vox continued. “What did you trade for that staff?”

 

Alastor’s ear flicked.

 

Just once.

 

It was minuscule. Yet it betrayed him.

 

Vox’s smile widened instantly.

 

“Ohhh,” he crooned. “There it is. God, I do know you.” 

 

He paced a slow circle, eyes never leaving Alastor. 

 

“Your body, maybe? That’d explain the marks. Maybe Angel Dust rubbed off on you more than I thought.”

 

He stopped in front of him, screen tilting as if in contemplation.

 

“Or… maybe it was something bigger.”

 

A beat.

 

“Did you sell your… soul?”

 

Alastor’s eyes widened.

 

Vox burst out laughing.

 

“Holy shit,” he barked. “You did! You actually did!” 

 

He dragged a claw down his face in mock disbelief. 

 

“Were you really that fucking desperate, sweetheart?”

 

He shook his head, still laughing.

 

“Of course you didn’t earn that power on your own. I mean - look at you.” 

 

He gestured broadly at Alastor. 

 

“Drop-dead gorgeous, sure. But still an Omega.”

 

Vox sneered.

 

“Of course you needed a sugar daddy.”

 

Alastor’s grip tightened around his staff. 

 

“You’re pathetic,” Vox continued, smoothly. “Really fucking pathetic. Everything I built, I built with my own two hands. I didn’t beg for it. I didn’t barter myself away. I took everything I wanted.”

 

He stepped closer.

 

“Including you.”

 

“I don’t belong - ”

 

“Oh, cut the bullshit,” Vox snapped, the humor evaporating.

 

Alastor’s ears flattened fully now, pupils blown wide, lips trembling despite himself.

 

“You will always belong to someone,” Vox hissed. “And not in some pretty, romantic fairytale way.”

 

His screen warped for a moment, his face distorting into something monstrous beneath the polish.

 

“Your body is property,” Vox said, coldly. “It was property the second you were born and came screaming into the world with a cunt.”

 

He spread his arms wide.

 

“So tell me, Alastor - do you honestly think you compare to me?”

 

A beat.

 

“To me?”

 

Vox watched closely - and there it was. 

 

Just for a fraction of a second, something slipped through the cracks of Alastor’s immaculate composure. Something wounded. A flicker of doubt Vox had spent decades cultivating and pressing into place whenever his wife dared to look beyond the cage built for him.

 

He smiled.

 

“I think you need to accept reality, baby,” Vox continued, his voice smoothing into something almost gentle. “You’re delusional. You always have been. This world doesn’t give a single, solitary shit about your feelings - and deep down?” 

 

He leaned closer. 

 

“You know that.”

 

He took another step forward, closing the distance with confidence.

 

“Hell isn’t built for dreams like yours,” Vox drawled. “It chews them up. It rewards people like me. People who understand how things actually work.” 

 

His gaze dragged slowly over Alastor’s form. 

 

“You weren’t supposed to escape. You were supposed to stay pretty and quiet.”

 

A pause.

 

“But you decided to throw a tantrum instead.”

 

Vox exhaled a faint laugh, shaking his head as if disappointed.

 

“You had your fun,” he went on. “But fantasies don’t last, sweetheart.”

 

He stopped just short of Alastor’s reach.

 

“So do yourself a favor,” Vox murmured, his voice low and intimate. “Give up. Before this gets uglier than it has to.”

 

He leaned in, close enough that the glow of his screen washed over Alastor’s face. Close enough that there was no room to retreat without conceding ground. Vox wanted him to feel that - wanted him to remember what it was like to have nowhere to go.

 

“I don’t have any qualms about beating you into submission,” he continued, calmly. “I can. And I will. Over and over and over again - until whatever this little rebellion is gets knocked clean outta your head.” 

 

His mouth curved, sharp and humorless. 

 

“Because it’s obvious that’s exactly what you need.”

 

His eyes narrowed, the light behind the screen sharpening into slits.

 

“I played the gentle spouse,” Vox said. “The patient husband. Decades of restraint. Decades of indulging you - your moods, your pride and your delusions.” 

 

His voice hardened. 

 

“And it still wasn’t fucking good enough for you.”

 

He scoffed softly.

 

“That wasn’t what you needed. Not really.”

 

Without warning, his hand shot out and seized Alastor’s jaw, claws biting in hard enough to bruise. The pressure forced his face up, angled just so. The tips of Vox’s claws pierced skin, drawing thin lines of red that smeared beneath his grip.

 

Vox leaned in until his screen was inches from Alastor’s face.

 

“That’s going to change,” he said, quietly. “I promise you that.”

 

The doe’s eyes flashed with something dark and feral, and the sound that tore from his throat was a low snarl. 

 

He wrenched his face free of Vox’s grasp, claws raking across the man’s screen in the same motion. Hard enough to leave visible scratches spidering through the glass. Pain lanced up his jaw where Vox had held him, but it barely registered beneath the surge of rage roaring through his veins.

 

Alastor shoved him back with a force that was anything but Omega-soft, his hooves scraping against the pavement as he braced himself. The instinct to tear flooded him, threatening to drown out thought entirely.

 

Vox staggered only a step before regaining his balance. He straightened slowly, as though the shove had been little more than an inconvenience. The man adjusted his tie, smoothed the front of his suit and rolled his shoulders with theatrical patience.

 

“Well,” he said, voice buzzing with anticipation. “Guess we’re doing this the hard way.”

 

With a mechanical hiss, thick wires burst from his back, unfurling like predatory limbs. In response, Alastor’s own shadow stretched and warped, dark tendrils blooming behind him.

 

Vox’s grin widened, teeth bared in something vicious and delighted.

 

“C’mon then, sweetheart,” he drawled, spreading his arms in invitation. “Let’s see how much fight you’ve really got in you now.” 

 

His eyes gleamed. 

 

“Because I’m gonna fucking enjoy this.”

 

❧

 

Angel Dust rounded the corner at a half-run, breath tearing in and out of his chest as he pressed his shoulder to the wall and leaned just far enough to see. The alley had become a cage. Alastor was slammed into brick hard enough to rattle bone, only for Vox to be forced back a second later as shadowed tendrils lashed out with lethal precision.

 

The air hummed with violence.

 

Where the fuck is Val? Or Velvette?

 

The thought cut through his panic. There was no way they’d simply sit this out. Not when Vox was finally getting what he’d wanted for months. Angel’s breath hitched as his extra eyes bloomed open, pupils flicking rapidly as his enhanced senses stretched outward, combing the alley and the surrounding streets.

 

Nothing.

 

A chill crept down his spine.

 

Did Vox overplay his hand?

 

Angel swallowed and forced himself to steady. Husk was close. Close enough to respond the moment he was needed. That alone eased some of the tightness in his chest.

 

Angel’s claws curled as he pulled his phone free, squinting down at the screen. No new notifications. No incoming messages. Nothing from Valentino. Nothing from Velvette.

 

He typed quickly, fingers flying despite the tremor running through them, relaying the situation to Husk in short, clipped bursts. He hit send and tucked the phone away, pressing himself flatter against the wall as another impact echoed through the alley.

 

He allowed himself to hope - for a moment. 

 

And then a familiar scent reached him. 

 

And his eyes - all of them - widened. 

 

❧

 

“You’re gonna have to do better than that, baby!”

Vox’s distorted roar grated against his senses, the sound warping as it tore through the narrow confines of the alley. Alastor answered with a sharp sneer, claws digging into cracked concrete as he pivoted away from a strike.

 

The space was suffocating. There was no room for grand displays or careless excess. Every movement had to be precise. One misstep meant a broken bone, a severed artery or worse. 

 

They circled one another like predators. Shadow and wire collided in violent bursts, slamming into brick and metal alike, the alley shuddering with each exchange. 

 

Sparks hissed where Vox’s wires scraped stone; Alastor’s tendrils tore gouges through brick wall. 

 

Vox never stopped talking.

 

He taunted him relentlessly, voice dripping with mockery as he struck and retreated, struck and retreated again - probing for weakness. Every jeer was calculated, meant to dig under Alastor’s skin and remind him of old roles and old power dynamics.

 

“C’mon, sweetheart,” Vox sneered as a wire snapped past Alastor’s cheek. “This all that fancy new power gets ya?”

 

Alastor didn’t rise to it. He snarled instead, baring his teeth as shadows surged in answer, lashing out with murderous intent. Vox narrowly avoided impalement, laughter crackling from his speakers as he twisted away.

 

And then a wire slipped through.

 

It happened in a blink - an opening so small Alastor barely registered it before it was too late. The filament coiled tight around his neck, biting in with brutal force and yanking him off his feet. He hit the ground hard, the impact rattling his skull as the pressure cut off his breath. His vision swam, stars bursting at the edges as he clawed instinctively at the constriction.

 

A tendril reacted before conscious thought could catch up.

 

It snapped down with savage force, cleaving the wire clean through. The tension vanished instantly and Alastor sucked in a ragged, burning gasp. He rolled to his knees, one hand braced against the ground, shadows bristling violently around him.

 

Vox loomed closer, posture relaxed despite the intensity of the fight. 

 

“Not a fan of being tied up, baby?” he purred, cruelty threaded through every syllable.

 

Alastor lifted his head slowly, eyes blazing. For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to Vox alone. 

 

He rose.

 

And pain exploded across his back.

 

It was sudden - biting deep as though something barbed and living had been dragged across him with intent. The sensation wasn’t a clean strike but a ripping one, thorns biting and tearing as they passed, leaving fire in their wake. 

 

Alastor arched involuntarily, a sharp, pained scream tearing free from his throat. 

 

He staggered forward a step, claws scraping against brick as he fought to stay upright.

 

Vox straightened, adjusting his stance as Alastor reeled. His grin widened, screen flickering with barely contained delight.

 

Again.

 

The pain struck a second time, crossing over the first lash - deeper now, more deliberate. Alastor gasped, shoulders shaking as shadows flared erratically around him, his focus fracturing under the realization that hit harder than the blow itself.

 

Someone else was here.

 

His ears flattened as fury and disbelief tangled together in his chest. He should have noticed. He should have fucking noticed.  He’d been so fixated on Vox that he’d missed the subtle change in the air.

 

“Oh, sweetie,” a familiar voice chimed.

 

Alastor froze.

 

A woman’s voice followed by a soft, disappointed tut. There was something maternal in it, the kind of tone reserved for wayward children. 

 

“It’s time to come home.”

Chapter 67: 67

“Rosie.”

 

He breathed the name. It slipped from him on a rough, ragged exhale as she approached, heels clicking against the cement. In her grip was a golden whip, its length fashioned like a living vine, thorns jutting cruelly along its surface. 

 

She met his gaze without hesitation.

 

“Rosie,” he repeated, voice strained. “Why? Why are you here?”

 

Her expression shifted only slightly - a faint frown tugging at the corner of her painted lips as her eyes swept over him from antler to hooves. Blood streaked his back. His posture was rigid with pain and fury alike.

 

“For your sake, Alastor.”

 

“My sake?” 

 

The words tore out of him, sharp and incredulous. 

 

“My sake?”

 

His back burned as blood continued to seep through torn fabric, outrage coiling tight in his chest.

 

Rosie had been a mother to him for decades. A constant presence. To see her bring her power to bear against him now caused something within his personal depths to writhe in agony. 

 

He shut his eyes, jaw clenched tight.

 

“Everything I’ve ever done has been for your benefit,” Rosie said, calmly.

 

She stood as she always had - elegant and perfectly composed. Her dress and bearing were almost absurd against the grimy architecture of the alley.

 

“When I found you, I wanted to keep you safe,” she continued. “So I took you in. I allowed you freedom within my territory for decades.”

 

Her gaze sharpened.

 

“I wanted you to be happy. You were my very own, Alastor. The closest thing I’ll ever have to a son.” 

 

Her voice softened, just slightly. 

 

“You are my son. And I love you more than you’ll ever care to admit.”

 

Memories rose unbidden. Meals shared, quiet conversations that stretched into the night and a life saturated with a familial warmth. A home provided. Clothes supplied. Food offered.

 

She had done her duty, he supposed. As any mother might.

 

“When Vox showed interest,” Rosie went on, a quiet sigh escaping her, “I was overjoyed. He was a good Alpha. Strong. Stable. He would keep you safe. Give you a family. You’d want for nothing. It was everything I ever wanted for you.”

 

Her gaze dimmed.

 

“But then…” She hesitated. “…you became stubborn. You wanted to play the recalcitrant. I tried to help you understand. And you closed your ears to both of us. You drank yourself into oblivion. You ran away. You became a liar.”

 

“Both of you fail to realize that my desires never aligned with your own,” Alastor snapped, voice tight and controlled. “I had no intention of remaining trapped in an arrangement not of my own making.”

 

“I couldn’t trust you to know what was best for yourself,” Rosie replied, sharply. “You behaved recklessly. You insisted on independence. You clung to ambitions that misaligned with your designation.” 

 

She pointed a manicured nail at him. 

 

“You were teetering on the edge of self-destruction whether you recognized it or not.”

 

Her voice hardened.

 

“You convinced yourself of your own misery. Not once did you allow yourself to be happy.”

 

“He’s using you to get to me, Rosie!” Alastor snarled, fury bleeding through restraint. “He wants to hurt me. That’s all he’s ever wanted.”

 

“He wants to help you, darling,” she insisted. “You’re angry. Confused. You don’t know what’s best for you.” 

 

She stepped closer.

 

“We’re your family.”

 

Her voice softened again, coaxing. She’d extend a hand, attempting to beckon him. 

 

“Come back to us. If you would just let yourself be happy - ”

 

The anger surged, choking him.

 

“I will never be happy,” Alastor snapped, trembling with rage. “Not with him. Not with the Vees. And not with you.” 

 

His voice cracked. 

 

“Don’t pretend you didn’t trade me away for an alliance. Like cattle. Like something to be bartered.”

 

For the first time, Rosie faltered.

 

Hurt flashed across her face followed swiftly by grief. She drew in a steadying breath.

 

“I’m disappointed in you, Alastor.”

 

His shadows writhed violently, swelling outward as minions tore free - some small and skittering, others towering and monstrous. Crimson eyes fixed upon the family he had left behind.

 

“The feeling,” Alastor said, coldly, “is entirely mutual.”

❧

 

The encounter that followed was neither clean nor brief. It was brutal in its inevitability.

 

Alastor had potential but it was still raw. Barely half a year had passed since power had been pressed into his hands and now he stood against Overlords who had honed theirs over decades. 

 

Every instinct screamed the same truth: he was strong, but they were seasoned. Had it not been for his minions and the precise, near-instinctual control he maintained over his shadowed tendrils, the fight would have ended within moments.

 

Even so, he refused to fall easily.

 

Rosie moved first.

 

Despite the elegance of her posture and the immaculate set of her shoulders, she wielded her whip with devastating efficiency. The thorned length snapped through the air, each crack precise and intentional. 

 

Minion after minion was torn apart - shadows split, limbs severed and forms unraveling under her practiced hand. She did not waste a single motion nor hesitate. 

 

Vox countered Alastor’s shadows with precision. His wires burst outward, meeting tendrils mid-strike and tangling them in snarled knots. Shadow hissed against voltage. 

 

The battle spilled outward, momentum carrying them from the narrow alley into the open streets. Alastor repositioned constantly, refusing to allow himself to be boxed in. Every step was measured. Every strike was deliberate. He used distance when he could, forcing them to divide their attention.

 

It was a dance.

 

And he was bleeding.

 

His back burned where Rosie’s whip had torn through fabric and flesh. Blunt force strikes rattled through his bones and the constant drain of maintaining control pressed at the edges of his concentration. Still, he moved. Still, he fought. He could feel it, though - the slow, grinding attrition. 

 

They knew he had a limit.

 

“Rosie!” Vox barked suddenly.

 

Static cracked and in a flash of light the Alpha repositioned. Vox’s wire shot forward, bypassing Alastor’s guard and coiling tightly around the wrist that held the staff.

 

Electricity surged.

 

Alastor’s teeth clenched as current tore through him, muscles locking as pain exploded white-hot along his arm. 

 

His grip faltered and that was all Rosie needed.

 

Her whip lashed out, wrapping around his free wrist. Thorns sank deep, biting mercilessly into flesh. He snarled, planting his hooves and resisting the pull - refusing to be drawn fully into their grasp. Shadows flared and minions surged forth in retaliation.

 

Another jolt tore through him.

 

This one drove him to his knees.

 

The staff vanished from his grasp the instant his concentration slipped. It was abrupt andviolent in its finality. Shadows unraveled mid-motion, tendrils dissolving into nothing as minions scattered and collapsed like smoke. For a single, suspended heartbeat there was only static and pain. 

 

He tried to fight it.

 

That, it seemed, was a mistake.

 

More power was forced into him as punishment. The voltage spiked in sharp, escalating surges - each one harsher than the last, flooding his nerves until his body betrayed him completely. 

 

His scream tore free -  dragged from his throat as though the sound itself were being ripped out of him. Every nerve felt aflame, pain lancing through muscle and bone, his body convulsing as it was driven past its limits.

 

Vox stepped closer.

 

Through the haze, Alastor turned his head toward the sound of him, snapping blindly at the air with bared teeth. There was no dignity left in it. Only defiance.

 

The response was immediate.

 

Another shock ripped through him. It felt less like restraint and more like correction.

 

As though he were an animal being tamed through sheer brutality.

 

The bonds finally loosened.

 

Alastor crumpled where he stood, his body giving out all at once. He hit the ground hard, breath stuttering, limbs slack and unresponsive - the world narrowing to pain. 

 

Tears streamed unchecked from Alastor’s eyes, wide and unfocused, his pupils blown out and unseeing. Saliva slipped from the corner of his mouth as his body lay twisted and limp against the pavement. He was nothing more than dead weight now, breath stuttering shallowly in his chest. Whatever fight had once animated him had been burned clean out of his nerves.

 

Vox and Rosie approached with measured care. There was no urgency in their steps - only satisfaction. The work had been done. 

 

“He’s down,” Vox said, pleased. 

 

Rosie’s lips pressed into a thin line as she regarded Alastor’s collapsed form. Her grip tightened subtly around the handle of her whip, thorns still slick with blood. She gave a small, rigid nod.

 

“Yes,” she agreed, quietly. “Let’s - ”

 

Something dropped between them.

 

It was sudden. A blur of motion and color, light on its feet. The impact was small but decisive, the figure landing squarely between Rosie and Alastor before immediately springing upright, bouncing from one foot to the other.

 

Rosie’s eyes widened in sharp surprise.

 

“Niffty -  what are you - ?”

 

“Hi, Rosie!”

 

The greeting burst out bright and delighted. Niffty twirled a long, gleaming dagger between her hands with dizzying speed, metal flashing as it spun. Her single eye was wide, her grin stretched impossibly far as she bared her pointed teeth.

 

Rosie’s face twisted, shock giving way to displeasure. 

 

“What do you think you’re doing, young lady?”

 

Niffty’s head tilted sharply, the motion jerky and excited. She leaned forward just a little, placing herself more squarely in front of Alastor’s limp form, dagger still dancing idly through her fingers.

 

“I’m,” she crooned, voice sing-song and sweet, “keeping Alastor safe.”

 

Her tongue slid slowly over the edge of her teeth, the grin sharpening into something feral. 

 

She glanced back at Alastor, then returned her gaze to Rosie, her eye shining with malice.

 

“Because you didn’t.”

Chapter 68: 68

For a brief, disorienting moment, Vox and Rosie simply stared at her.

 

It wasn’t fear but something closer to startled disbelief.

 

Niffty had always been… there. 

 

A strange, twitchy fixture at the edges of their shared history. Vox had never liked her. She was a neurotic little thing who lingered around Rosie like a bad habit, indulged only because Alastor seemed fond of her. From Vox’s perspective, she had been harmless. 

 

Rosie, at least, had found her tolerable. Endearing, even. A sweet, fastidious little woman with nervous energy and sharp elbows. Someone who cleaned too much and talked too fast. Someone who had watched from the margins for years.

 

And now she stood between them and Alastor, dagger in hand.

 

The blade itself was eye-catching.

 

It was slim, elegant and viciously beautiful. Its edge caught the light in a way that made the air around it feel thinner. The metal was dark, almost glossy - etched faintly with an insignia that made Rosie’s breath hitch as recognition struck.

 

“Oooh,” Niffty chimed, spinning the dagger effortlessly between her fingers, the motion so smooth it barely registered as movement. 

 

“Do you like it?”

 

She beamed at them, rocking on her heels.

 

“It was a gift,” she added, brightly. “From a verrrry special person.”

 

Rosie inhaled sharply.

 

Before she could speak, Vox reacted.

 

A wire snapped forward, fast and precise - only to be cleaved mid-air.

 

Niffty pivoted on a dime, the dagger flashing once. The wire fell away in two clean halves, severed as easily as softened butter.

 

“That’s a bad boy,” she snorted, punctuating the words with a sharp snap of her wrist.

 

The realization landed hard.

 

That blade wasn’t ornamental. 

 

It was forged for war. One of the relics from Lucifer’s personal armory, crafted with materials dredged from Hell’s deepest layers, blessed to bite deeper than anything sold on the open market. Only a handful existed beyond Morningstar’s walls. Rosie had seen them once or twice in centuries past. 

 

And now Niffty had one.

 

Rosie didn’t have time to ask how.

 

Chaos erupted.

 

Niffty vanished.

 

Not disappeared - moved. 

 

Her small frame became a blur of motion, darting and weaving in sharp, erratic patterns that made tracking her nearly impossible. Rosie lashed out instinctively, her whip cracking through the air in vicious arcs, thorns snapping closed on empty space again and again.

 

Vox and Rosie exchanged a brief, sharp glance.

 

Together, they should have been able to handle her.

 

But fighting Niffty was like trying to catch a living splinter.

 

She slipped under strikes, vaulted over debris and rebounded off walls with manic glee. The same frenetic movements she’d once used to scrub floors and scale furniture now translated into combat with horrifying efficiency.

 

Rosie gasped as Niffty flashed past her, the dagger whispering through fabric and flesh alike. The shoulder of her dress split open, skin beneath burning where the blade kissed it. It was damage that would not knit easily.

 

Vox snarled as a glancing cut bit into his side moments later.

 

“You fucking - goddamned - rodent!”

 

Niffty giggled, the sound shrill and delighted, as she danced away. The strikes weren’t deep. They weren’t immediately fatal.

 

But they were constant.

 

The promise of a thousand shallow wounds. A defeat measured in accumulation.

 

“Niffty - enough!” Rosie barked, fury and something sharper lacing her voice.

 

“No!”

 

Niffty surged toward her, forcing Rosie to dodge hard.

 

“You hurt Alastor over - ”

A slash.

 

“ - and over - ”

A stab.

 

“ - again!”

 

“I said enough!”

 

“I said no!” Niffty shrieked.

 

The word carried years with it.

 

Years of watching Alastor fold in on himself. Of seeing him dragged, dressed, traded and punished. Of finding him smiling through pain he was never allowed to refuse.

 

Over.
 

And over.

 

And over again.

 

She was done watching.

 

Rosie screamed as the dagger plunged deep into her shoulder, the blade burning as it went in. 

 

Niffty laughed and then the sound cut off abruptly.

 

A wire snapped tight around her neck, yanking her backward and slamming her into the pavement with brutal force.

 

The impact cracked the stone.

 

The dagger skidded from her grasp.

 

Niffty lay stunned, breath knocked from her lungs as Vox loomed over her.

 

Four wires snapped out at once, coiling around Niffty’s wrists and ankles. They tightened, then pulled - hoisting her off the ground and stretching her small frame taut in midair. A sharp cry tore from her throat as pain lanced through her joints. 

 

For a heartbeat, it looked like it might break her.

 

Then she laughed.

 

It was thin at first but it swelled into something sharp and unhinged as she bared her pointed teeth, her single eye locking onto Vox’s fractured screen with manic intensity. Even restrained and hurt, there was something viciously delighted in her expression. 

 

“I’m going to tear off your limbs like the roach you are,” Vox growled, his voice dropping into something low and feral as the wires flexed tighter around her.

 

He stepped forward, his intentions clear.

 

But before he could act, something drifted lazily into his line of sight.

 

A playing card.

 

It fluttered between them, spinning end over end. Vox’s gaze flicked to it instinctively, a flash of irritation - and then bemusement - flickering across his projected features.

 

The card detonated.

 

The explosion was small. 

 

But it was enough.

 

Light and force burst outward in a sharp concussive snap, close enough to rattle his screen and send static screaming through his systems. Vox recoiled with a hiss, wires spasming as the sudden disruption scrambled his focus.

 

The tension on Niffty’s restraints faltered.

 

She hit the ground lightly, knees bending on instinct as she absorbed the impact. In the same breath, she twisted, scrambling for her dagger with frantic urgency. Her fingers closed around the hilt and she was upright again in an instant, her single eye snapping immediately to Rosie with feral focus. 

 

Whatever pain lingered in her limbs was dismissed outright, her posture coiled and ready as she prepared to lunge again.

 

Then came the sound of wings.

 

A furred figure landed neatly behind her. Niffty didn’t turn - she didn’t need to. She felt the shift in the air, the weight of another presence settling into place at their rear. Vox straightened as his gaze flitted between a winged feline and the small woman.

 

Vox barked out a harsh, incredulous laugh.

 

“Oh, are you fucking serious?”

 

Husk rolled his shoulders back, unflinching beneath the Alpha’s shining gaze. His ears flattened slightly as his yellow eyes narrowed, locking onto Vox with cold intent. There was no bluster in his stance - only certainty. 

 

“A half-baked Overlord and some cleaner bitch?” 

 

Vox sneered, his tone dripping with contempt. 

 

“You honestly think you can handle Rosie and me? Is this all Alastor has left?”

 

Husk didn’t answer right away.

 

Gold shimmered into existence within his grasp - rings forming with a low, resonant hum. The curious weapons solid and radiant within his grasp. 

 

“We’re all he needs.”

 

Both Niffty and Husk shifted in unison, their bodies tightening as Vox and Rosie began to circle them.

 

Rosie adjusted her grip on the golden whip, the thorned length dragging softly across the pavement as she moved, her expression composed but sharpened - maternal warmth stripped away to reveal something cold and resolute beneath. 

 

Vox paced opposite her, wires flexing and retracting with quiet menace, the fractured lines of his screen glowing as his gaze flicked between them, calculating.

 

They were closing the distance.

 

Niffty lowered her center of gravity, dagger angled just so, her posture coiled and twitchy. There was a wild focus in her single eye now. 

 

Husk, for his part, planted his feet and squared his shoulders, gold rings hovering at the ready, his jaw set hard as he tracked their approach.

 

Neither spoke.

 

They held their ground, breath steady and nerves taut - bracing themselves for the next collision and for whatever violence was about to crash down upon them.

 

But they did so together. 

Chapter 69: 69

Niffty and Husk moved as though they’d rehearsed this a thousand times, their motions instinctive and precise. They did not need words. A glance and the slightest change in angle was enough to communicate intent. Each of them claimed their target without hesitation - Niffty cutting toward Rosie with feral glee and Husk squaring himself against Vox with grim focus.

 

Husk fought like someone who had finally remembered what it meant to want something. His cards snapped through the air with lethal efficiency, his gold rings flashing. 

 

Vox’s wires lashed out in sharp, crackling arcs, but Husk read them like a gambler reading a rigged deck - anticipating feints and slipping through gaps that shouldn’t have existed. His movements were fast and infuriatingly clever. Each near-miss only sharpened his grin, each successful dodge sending a pulse of exhilaration through his chest.

 

Niffty, meanwhile, was chaos incarnate. She darted around Rosie’s whip with jerky, unpredictable movements. Her laughter rang bright and unhinged as steel met air again and again. The blade in her hand hunted relentlessly, slipping past defenses in quick, shallow strikes rather than overcommitted blows.

 

Rosie avoided another full impalement by inches - but not without cost. Dark blood stained the sleeve at her shoulder, the wound burning where Niffty’s dagger had sunk into flesh. Niffty noticed and her grin widened accordingly.

 

Together, they shifted the battle’s shape with intention, angling their footwork and attacks to pull Vox and Rosie farther and farther from where Alastor lay crumpled on the ground. 

 

Broken pavement split beneath the strain of power unleashed, walls scorched and cracked as the fight migrated down the street. It was deliberate and every step was taken with Alastor in mind.

 

They were not here to win glory.

 

They were here to defend him.

 

Even if it cost them everything.

 

The realization settled heavily within Husk’s chest. He had never thrown himself so fully into protecting another soul. Not like this. 

 

And yet, as the fight raged on, it felt… right. 

 

Alastor had seen something in him. Had believed in him - not as a tool nor as disposable muscle, but as someone worth investing in. Someone with a future. The doe had pulled him back from the edge of irrelevance; from stagnation and slow decay and Husk would be damned before he let that future be torn away.

 

Maybe it made him a fool.

 

But as Vox snarled in frustration and lunged again and Husk twisted aside with a laugh bubbling up from his chest, he realized something with startling clarity.

 

He felt alive.

 

Power surged through him, sharp and electric and he grinned like a madman as card met wire and sparks flew. For the first time in a long, long while, Husk wasn’t just surviving.

 

He was fighting for something that mattered.

 

❧

“Al. Al - hey. C’mon back to me, baby.”

 

The voice cut through the haze first. Alastor blinked, his damp lashes fluttering as consciousness dragged itself back into place. Pain followed immediately, his nerves still singing with the echo of electricity. His body jerked in a startled reflex, a sharp breath tearing from his throat as sensation returned all at once.

 

“There we go. Easy. Easy,” Angel murmured, hands warm against Alastor’s face as if anchoring him to the moment.

 

The alley came into focus in fragments. Cold droplets speckled his cheeks and fur, soaking into already-damp clothes. Everything smelled like wet concrete, ozone and blood.

 

“Angel…?” Alastor rasped, squinting up at him.

 

“Yeah. It’s me,” Angel said, softly. “You’re good. I got you outta there. Or - well - outta that part of there.” ”

 

Alastor became dimly aware of his position then. His head was cradled in Angel’s lap, the spider Omega hunched protectively over him. Angel’s fingers threaded through his curls with careful gentleness, smoothing them back again and again. There was a tremor in his hands that he clearly wasn’t trying very hard to hide.

 

“How ya feelin’?” Angel asked, quieter now.

 

Alastor shut his eyes and drew in a slow, unsteady breath. Every inch of him ached. His back burned and his wrist throbbed. His chest felt tight. 

 

“Terrible,” he admitted, flatly.

 

Angel let out a weak snort. “Yeah. Figured as much.” 

 

His smile flickered, then faded as reality pressed back in. 

 

“Al… we - uh. We gotta move. We can’t stay here long.”

 

Alastor gritted his teeth and forced himself upright, swaying as he did. Fresh pain flared where Rosie’s whip had torn into him, warm blood seeping beneath damp fabric. He hissed quietly but stayed upright through sheer stubbornness.

 

“Husk and Niffty,” he said, breath tight. “They’re still out there.”

 

Angel hesitated, his mouth opening as if to argue then closing again. His gaze dropped before he finally nodded once. 

 

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, they are.”

 

Alastor’s expression hardened despite the pain.

 

“Then we’re not leaving,” he said evenly. “Not without them.”

 

Angel searched his face for a long second, then exhaled and squeezed his shoulder.

 

“Alright,” he said. 

 

❧

 

“Think you’re tough shit, don’t you?”

 

Vox’s voice crackled with distortion as he flexed his claws, electricity skating along the edges. He lunged in a precise, practiced slash - only for his hand to collide with a golden ring that snapped into place an instant before impact. The makeshift barrier rang like struck metal, reverberating through the narrow street as Husk slid back a step. 

 

Vox sneered, screen flickering with irritation. 

 

“You’re a Beta being led around by an Omega of all things,” he spat. “An Omega. What a fuckin’ joke.”

 

Husk’s ears flattened, his fangs flashing as he bared them in return. Wires and claws collided in a violent blur as they closed the distance, snarling at one another, blows exchanged too fast for anything but instinct to keep pace. Sparks showered the alley as Vox’s wires lashed out, snapping and coiling, while Husk twisted between them with sharp movements.

 

“You don’t have to do this,” Vox taunted mid-strike, voice dripping with false magnanimity. “Not too late to turn this around. Give up now, and I won’t tear you - and that little cleaner bitch - apart.” 

 

A pause, a grin sharpening across his screen. 

 

“Wouldn’t want to upset my bitch of a wife too much.”

 

That did it.

 

Husk’s expression went cold. A storm of cards appeared manifested in puffs of smoke, erupting outward in a lethal spiral. Each one sliced cleanly through Vox’s wires, detonating on contact after being partly embedded in flesh. 

 

Vox staggered back with a distorted roar, static screaming across his screen as pain tore through him. Husk didn’t relent. He pressed forward, cards snapping back into his paws as quickly as they were thrown, eyes burning bright.

 

“I already made my choice,” Husk growled. “And it ain’t you.”

 

❧

 

“You’re not doing Alastor any favors, Niffty,” Rosie hissed, her voice sharp with restrained fury.

 

Rain slicked the pavement beneath them, darkening the concrete as it mingled with blood. Niffty shifted her stance, light on her feet despite the fatigue beginning to creep into her limbs. Her single eye locked onto Rosie with unnerving focus.

 

Both Betas bore the marks of the fight now but neither showed any inclination to yield.

 

Rosie straightened, shoulders squaring as she rolled the tension from her injured arm. Despite the blood staining her sleeve, her grip on the whip remained precise. 

 

She hadn’t survived Hell’s hierarchy by chance. Power radiated from her in quiet, undeniable waves - discipline honed over decades. 

 

“I’d rather not hurt you more than I already have,” Rosie continued, tone cool but edged with something almost regretful. “But you’re forcing my hand, young lady.”

 

Niffty didn’t answer right away. She simply tightened her grip around the dagger’s hilt, knuckles whitening as her smile thinned into something feral. Rain traced paths down her face, catching on her lashes as her head tilted just slightly. 

 

Rosie’s painted lips pressed into a hard line. Whatever maternal softness she might once have extended was gone now, buried beneath resolve.

 

“So be it,” she said.

 

The rain fell harder.

 

❧

 

They were both on the back foot now.

 

For all their speed and coordination, for all the ferocity they’d brought to bear - the weight of two seasoned Overlords was beginning to tell. Niffty’s movements had lost a fraction of their manic sharpness, her breaths coming faster and her grip slick with rain and blood. Husk’s shoulders burned with exertion, muscles screaming as he forced himself to stay upright. 

 

Their efforts had been valiant. 

 

But valor didn’t close the gap in experience. And it didn’t erase the raw, crushing might that Rosie and Vox wielded with practiced ease.

 

“Niffty!” Husk snarled, the warning ripped from his throat as a near-miss sent sparks skittering across the pavement.

 

Husk moved without thinking, pivoting hard until their backs collided. They ended up pressed together, shoulders touching and bodies heaving as they dragged in air.

 

Across from them, Rosie and Vox closed in again.

 

“We gotta get the fuck outta here,” Husk growled under his breath.

 

They’d done what they needed to do. That much mattered.

 

A quick glance down the street confirmed it - Alastor was gone. The space where he’d lain was empty. That knowledge steadied Husk just enough.

 

He reached into his suit jacket and produced a small, round orb, its surface etched with faint sigils. Without hesitation, he slammed it into the ground between them.

 

The explosion wasn’t fire - it was smoke. It swallowed the street whole, choking the air and blotting out sight in every direction.

 

“Fuck!” Vox barked, coughing. 

 

Rosie clicked her tongue in sharp irritation, snapping her whip through empty air as the smoke churned and spread.

 

When it finally began to thin, the alley stood empty.

 

No Niffty.

No Husk.

 

Just rain and the lingering echo of defiance.

 

Vox stared for a long moment before his gaze snapped down the road - toward where Alastor had been left.

 

The space was bare.

 

“Fuck!”

 

❧

 

“We need to get outta here before they figure out where we went,” Husk said, urgency roughening his voice. 

 

His gaze flicked down the alley, ears pinned. 

 

“Al. C’mere.”

 

“I can walk, Husk,” Alastor protested, even as he swayed on his hooves.

 

“The fuck you can,” Husk snapped back without missing a beat. “Stop bein’ fuckin’ stubborn and c’mere.”

 

The argument ended there.

 

Alastor was lifted clean off the ground, unceremoniously swept into a bridal carry that did absolutely nothing for his dignity. He stiffened for half a second before the fight bled out of him entirely. His body was still trembling, pain radiating in dull, nauseating waves. He let his head tip back against Husk’s shoulder, teeth clenched as he endured it.

 

Angel Dust didn’t hesitate either. He rushed to Niffty’s side, scooping her up with a sharp intake of breath when he saw the blood seeping through torn fabric. His arms tightened instinctively, careful despite the speed at which they were moving.

 

“I gotcha, Nif,” he crooned softly, voice trembling just enough to betray him. “I got you.”

 

She gave a faint, little grin through the pain, but said nothing.

 

They ran.

 

Feet splashed through rainwater and blood alike as they put distance between themselves and the alley - between themselves and the Overlords they’d dared to strike. The night swallowed them quickly, twisting streets and shadows offering concealment as they fled together. 

 

The relief that settled over them was heavy, almost dizzying. They hadn’t won but they’d survived. More than that, they’d left a mark. They’d forced their enemies to bleed.

 

They had struck back against powers that should have crushed them outright.

 

It was reckless.

Foolhardy.

Borderline suicidal.

 

And yet… 

 

As they disappeared into the labyrinth of Hell’s streets, bound together by loyalty and shared defiance, it felt like freedom.

Notes:

The next chapter will mark the end of the second arc. The following arc will be after a time skip that will place the characters at 'modern day' hell which would place them in the 2020's. As the events thus far take place between - roughly - 1930 and 2015.

Arc One; 1 - 20

Arc Two; 21 - 70

The next chapter will also include a rare POV shift to Lucifer.

Chapter 70: 70

Husk released a low purr, the sound deep and unguarded. It drew quiet amusement from everyone present.

 

The Overlord had fallen asleep halfway through their shared meal in the gardens of Morningstar Castle, curled comfortably atop the soft blanket that had been laid out beneath the open sky. 

 

The space around them felt… settled. Calm in a way Hell rarely permitted. The kind of peace that felt borrowed, fragile, but deeply cherished for however long it lasted.

 

It had been a good day.

 

It was quiet and warm. A week removed from blood and lightning and pain - their bodies still healing, their nerves finally beginning to unclench.

 

Alastor’s claws moved with careful precision as he scratched gently behind Husk’s ear. The feline shifted in his sleep, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as the purr deepened, richer and more contented than before.

 

Angel Dust barely managed to smother his laughter, shoulders shaking as he leaned closer.

 

“He’s a cutie, ain’t he?” Angel crooned, fondness softening his voice.

 

Alastor hummed in agreement, the sound warm and indulgent.

 

Nearby, Niffty rummaged enthusiastically through the woven basket the servants had prepared, crumbs already dusting her hands. Most of the food had been picked clean, but she triumphantly produced the last remaining pastry and took an enormous bite with open delight.

 

“This is nice,” Angel sighed after a moment.

 

He leaned lightly into Alastor’s side, the contact easy and familiar, head tipping just enough to rest against his shoulder. His many eyes softened as he smiled up at him.

 

“We should do this more often,” he added quietly.

 

“I don’t see why not,” Alastor replied, equally gentle.

 

Niffty padded over and wordlessly offered the remains of the pastry. Alastor politely accepted it despite knowing it wasn’t quite to his taste, breaking it in half and handing a portion to Angel. The spider Omega hummed appreciatively as he took it, brushing their fingers together in the exchange.

 

A comfortable silence followed.

 

Then Angel glanced around, gaze drifting between the sleeping Husk, Niffty happily licking sugar from her fingers and Alastor beside him.

 

“So… what’s next?”

 

Alastor’s smile thinned, tempered by thought.

 

“Well,” he began, measured, “that little scuffle made it abundantly clear that we aren’t prepared to deal with Vox and his allies head-on. Husk’s relatively secure in his own territory, but the rest of us…” 

 

His ears flicked subtly. 

 

“We’re still very much at risk.”

 

“Husk’ll crash here anyway,” Angel said easily, nodding toward the sleeping cat. “Ain’t like they’re gonna jump him in his sleep.”

 

“True,” Alastor conceded. “Which means while we have this refuge we need to prepare.”

 

Angel tilted his head, curiosity piqued. 

 

“Prepare for what, Al?”

 

“We’re not just going to sit and wait,” Alastor said quietly. 

 

Then, after a pause, his tone shifted. 

 

“... I don’t approve of your deal with Lucifer.”

 

Angel straightened slightly at that, pulling back just enough to look at him properly. There was no anger in his expression, only a flicker of unease.

 

“But,” Alastor continued, softer now, “we would be fools not to make use of it. You’re stronger than you were before. And I know why you did it.”

 

Angel’s gaze dropped, his mouth pulling into a small, conflicted frown.

 

“Yeah,” he admitted after a beat. “I know. I just… I wanted to be more than this.” 

 

He gestured vaguely at himself, then let his hand fall back into his lap. 

 

“Making that deal was the first time I ever made a decision that was really mine. No Val. No Vox. No one else tellin’ me what I’m allowed to be.”

 

Alastor reached out then, fingers brushing over Angel’s knuckles. 

 

“You more than enough for me,” he said, quietly.

 

Angel looked back up at him, something fragile but unmistakably hopeful flickering behind his eyes. It was brief but Alastor caught it all the same, and it lodged somewhere deep within his chest.

 

He let himself linger in that feeling. The warmth of it. The simple, almost foreign comfort of knowing that Husk Niffty, and Angel Dust were all close. 

 

That they were his. 

 

Their combined scent lingered in the air, familiar and grounding and for once he wanted to sink into it. To remember it.

 

With a quiet exhale, he eased himself down onto his back beside Husk. His gaze drifted upward, toward the red-stained sky of Hell. Clouds rolled lazily overhead, lit from beneath by a distant, infernal glow. 

 

It was ugly. It was beautiful. It was home - for now.

 

Angel followed a moment later, settling easily against him, head resting on his shoulder as though it had always belonged there. His body relaxed almost immediately, tension bleeding out of him as his eyes slid shut. 

 

Husk stirred in his sleep, shifting closer until he was snug against Alastor’s other side, a low, contented rumble vibrating through his chest. 

 

And then Niffty plopped herself atop Alastor’s torso, light as a feather despite her enthusiasm. She released a pleased little hum, her face still smeared with the remnants of jelly and sugar. 

 

Alastor didn’t protest.

 

Instead, his smile softened until it finally reached his eyes.

 

And when he closed them, surrounded on all sides, he allowed himself to rest.

 

❧

 

Vox sat alone in his office, eyes shut - his expression smoothed into an artificial calm. The screens surrounding him were dark, just the low hum of machinery and the steady tick of time passing. He let the silence stretch. Failure tasted bitter and he refused to choke on it in front of an audience.

 

Alastor’s persistence gnawed at him.

 

The doe had always been stubborn, yes - but this was different. This wasn’t petulance or defiance born of fear. This was resolve.. Still, it changed nothing. 

 

He hadn’t given up. He would never give up. Alastor was his wife. His. They belonged together, the Alpha and Omega bound by years and by ownership that Vox had never once questioned. That bond would be restored - by persuasion, by pressure or by force if necessary. It was only a matter of time.

 

Patience had never been his strongest virtue.

 

But some things were worth waiting for.

 

Thirty years. He had owned Alastor for thirty years. Shaped him and curated him into something exquisite and obedient. That claim did not simply vanish because the doe had found the audacity to run. Vox refused to accept a reality where that history meant nothing. Where Alastor’s defiance went unanswered.

 

His mind drifted back to the hotel room.

 

The way Alastor’s resolve had flickered. The uncertainty that had crept into his expression when Vox softened his tone. Vox remembered how easily his wife had wavered then, how quickly the old rhythms had tried to reassert themselves. 

 

He remembered the argument that followed - the sharp words, the rising panic and the way alcohol and fear had tangled together in Alastor’s veins.

 

He remembered claws scrabbling uselessly against him as he forced him onto the bed.

 

The sound of screaming.

 

The bite of teeth against flesh.

 

Vox’s tongue flicked out slowly as the memory settled, the man savoring it. Blood had filled his mouth then. There had been something exquisite in that pain. Agony stripped away pretense. It reminded Alastor of what he was. Of where he belonged.

 

The faintest smile threatened to curve the man’s projected lips before he smoothed it away.

 

Enough reminiscing.

 

He reached for his phone. When he dialed, the call connected almost immediately.

 

“Sir?”

 

“Baxter,” Vox said evenly. “Secure a line of communication for me. I need someone… specialized. Someone well-equipped to wrangle misplaced property.”

 

There was a brief pause on the other end.

 

“The name, sir?”

 

Vox’s eyes opened at last, screens flickering faintly to life behind him.

 

“I believe his name is,” he said, “…Striker.”

❧

 

Lucifer took steady, unhurried steps into the castle’s depths. This wing was old - older than most of Hell itself - raised in the aftermath of his descent; when the heavens had cast him down and he had been forced to carve a kingdom from the abyss. 

 

The stone here remembered him. It had been shaped by his will, sealed with his power, and preserved through sheer dominion. No cracks marred the floors. No dust dared to settle. Everything endured because he demanded it.

 

In a way, he supposed he had gotten exactly what he wanted.

 

He had been granted power that was absolute within the boundaries of the infernal depths. He was a god of this realm. A king. Revered by the creatures born in Hell’s depths and feared by the Sinners hurled screaming into it. 

 

They knelt. They prayed. They whispered his name with awe and terror alike. Yet this crown had come with chains. Hell was his eternity. A gilded prison. An endless separation from his brethren, who looked upon him with sanctimonious disdain. 

 

Lucifer was old.

 

One of his Father’s most beautiful creations. Perfect in design. Flawed only by ambition.

 

He had existed since the dawn of everything, his influence threading through the ages as humanity struggled to name and understand him. 

 

Ahriman. 

 

Loki. 

 

Apep. 

 

Hades. 

 

Each was a shadow of him - an interpretation of his cruelty, his cleverness and his dominion. He had always been there, lurking beneath their myths, shaping their fears and guiding their hands. 

 

A constant. An inevitability.

 

His footsteps barely sounded as he passed the portraits lining the hall.

 

His fall.

 

His conquest of Hell.

 

The forced birth of a civilization forged through fear, blood and obedience.

 

And in so many of them was Lilith.

 

She was everywhere. 

 

At his side. At his back. In his shadow. His queen, his companion and his ‘equal’… once. He supposed he had loved her, in the way beings like him understood love. But love had never truly mattered. Possession had. And she had been his. He had wrapped her in power, privilege and protection - and in doing so, he had believed her bound.

 

That arrogance had cost him everything.

 

He had given her just enough freedom to slip the leash. Enough space to betray him. And when she did, the damage had been catastrophic. Hell itself had trembled beneath the force of it.

 

She had escaped him.

 

Worse - he had never claimed her soul.

 

So she had ascended. Cleansed and untouched by his corruption. Beautiful in her defiance. And she had taken their child with her.

 

Gone. 

 

Beyond his reach.

 

Lucifer stopped before a particular portrait.

 

Lilith stood at its center, surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting - three figures pressed close, their expressions warm with a shared affection. There was intimacy in the composition. Trust and love freely given. 

 

He was not in this painting. 

 

Lucifer tilted his head slightly as he studied it.

 

They had helped her flee.

 

And he had killed every single one of them.

 

A pity, truly. But betrayal demanded consequence, and he had never been merciful in that regard. Their price had been steep - but fair.

 

Now his interest lay elsewhere.

 

Lucifer’s gaze drifted. 

 

He found that he quite liked Alastor’s little companions.

 

Husk. 

 

Angel Dust. 

 

Niffty.

 

They were spirited. Devoted. Dangerous in their own small, fascinating ways. They had proven themselves willing to bleed for Alastor - to defy Overlords, to bare their teeth at powers far greater than themselves.

 

 Such loyalty was rare. Precious.

 

They would make excellent attendants to his future queen.

 

And, of course, they would be his as well.

 

They would not betray him. 

 

Not when he claimed their souls. 

 

All he needed was patience.

 

Lucifer’s lips curved into a slow, knowing smile.

Notes:

This officially marks the end of this particular arc.

Thank you to all my readers!

All your comments have been wonderful.

And I'm happy that you've enjoyed my work so far!

Chapter 71: 71

Five years later. 

 

The political landscape of Pentagram City did not merely change - it tilted slowly at first, then all at once. Over the span of five years, opinion shifted in great, sweeping arcs; guided not by quiet consensus but by voices that flooded the airwaves. 

 

Radio crackled with rhetoric. Screens glowed with curated narratives. Influence became currency, and those who mastered it shaped the Pride Ring whether the old guard wished it or not.

 

Alastor ensured he was among those voices.

 

He did not rise alone. Together with his allies, he carved out a place that could not be ignored - by force when necessary. Where once they had been anomalies they were now fixtures in Hell’s hierarchy. 

 

Husk became the spine of it all.

 

The feline Overlord took naturally to the role of ‘foundation’. He understood borders and pressure points in a way the others did not and he wielded that understanding with a steady, pragmatic hand. 

 

Where Alastor was spectacle and Angel was precision, Husk was inevitability. He gave them room to grow, absorbed blows meant for them and ensured that no expansion went undefended. In time, his name carried weight all its own.

 

Niffty flourished as well. 

 

She developed a near-ritualistic fondness for Morningstar Castle’s armory, slipping between racks of ancient weapons as though she belonged there. Daggers, short blades, curious implements whose original purposes had been lost to time - she learned them all and wielded them with a practiced hand. Her delight never dulled, but it sharpened. 

 

Angel Dust changed the most visibly.

 

Where once he had survived by endurance and charm, he became comparatively active to a devastating degree. His enhanced senses transformed him into something frighteningly efficient - his vision near-perfect, his reflexes honed and his body capable of grand maneuvers. Firearms came naturally to him, as if some missing piece had finally slid into place. He learned them inside and out. Given instruction once, he never forgot it. 

 

He was no longer simply beautiful.

 

He was lethal.

 

Together, the four of them became a storm.

 

At first it was a ripple - minor Overlords along Husk’s borders falling one by one; their territories absorbed and their influence dissolved. Alastor led those early campaigns personally, descending with fervor and spectacle. Progress was methodical rather than fast. But it was visible and visibility bred fear.

 

Ordinarily, such shifts would have gone unremarked. 

 

Minor Overlords rose and fell all the time.

 

But this was different.

 

Alastor and Angel Dust did not fit the narrative. They defied it. Two Omegas at the forefront of an expanding power bloc. It unsettled the Alpha population, intrigued Betas and electrified Omegas across the ring. Angel Dust had once been just another beautiful thing

 

Everyone remembered that.

 

Now he stood beside Alastor as an equal.

 

They were indisputably Overlords - the first two Omega Overlords in Hell’s recorded history - and they held that title for five years straight. Challenges came often and they answered every single one.

 

Husk had also become an object of speculation.

 

The Omegas were comfortable with him in a way that made people stare. The pair are often seen in close proximity - each touch casual, their body language betraying their fondness for the feline. It sparked rumors, delighted gossip columns and humiliated Vox and Valentino in equal measure. 

 

The idea that two Omega Overlords favored a Beta over their Alphas was deliciously scandalous. Alastor and Angel leaned into it shamelessly, playing the part whenever cameras lingered. Husk pretended not to care, though the faint curl of his smile betrayed him.

 

They tormented the Vees whenever possible.

 

Targeted strikes, broadcast jabs and encroachment that stopped just short of open war. Alastor’s radio tower rose as their influence did. A structure that felt his, at last. After nearly a century, he had something that no one had handed to him.

 

He was happy.

 

He was alive.

 

He was ‘free’.

 

Free to love Angel Dust. Free to share his days with Niffty’s manic affection. Free to banter with Husk in quiet moments that felt almost domestic.

 

And yet.

 

Lucifer remained a constant presence and Adam lingered at the edges. 

 

And Vox hadn’t once stopped believing that history entitled him to reclamation.

 

Five years of victories. Five years of growth. 

 

And it was too perfect.

 

Alastor felt it in the quiet moments - when the broadcasts ended and the high from each victory faded. Hell did not allow perfection to stand unchallenged.

 

Something was waiting.

 

Something had to be waiting. 

 

And it made him nervous.

❧

Dante’s Inferno was a restaurant built upon neutral ground, and it wore that distinction like a crown. Everything about it was elaborate - marble floors polished to a mirror sheen, lighting calibrated to flatter rather than reveal and balconies and alcoves arranged to allow power to sit comfortably without ever brushing elbows. 

 

It was one of the few establishments frequented by Overlords of true standing. Not the scrabbling, territorial sort desperate to be seen - but those confident enough to exist without posturing. And lately, Dante’s Inferno had grown accustomed to the presence of all four of them.

 

Appearances mattered.

 

Power, after all, was not only wielded, it was displayed. 

 

And now that the time was theirs, Angel Dust and Alastor indulged in that truth with unmistakable relish. They dressed to be seen. Tailored trousers that hugged narrow hips and emphasized their waists, fabrics chosen to catch the light just so. Angel favored cuts that bordered on scandalous, while Alastor’s choices were subtler - the doe boasting an elegance that suggested restraint only because he allowed it.

 

Niffty joined them, resplendent in a ruby-toned dress that shimmered faintly as she moved. The color was no accident; it harmonized perfectly with Alastor’s ensemble, a visual echo that made them unmistakably together. She occasionally twirled when she walked, delighted by the way eyes followed her - her grin sharp and pleased whenever she caught someone staring too long.

 

Husk, by contrast, remained conservative - but he was no less striking for it. His suit was dark and impeccably cut, the tailoring emphasizing his broad frame without exaggeration. His mane had been slicked back with meticulous care, his fur brushed until it gleamed - an effort Angel and Alastor had taken far too much enjoyment in overseeing. He bore it with long-suffering tolerance, though the faint curl of his mouth betrayed that he didn’t entirely mind.

 

They came once or twice a month, enough to be recognized but not predictable. The staff knew them by sight and by reputation. They shared rich meals, drinks and conversation layered with dry wit and quiet laughter. Music drifted through the air, underscoring the sense that this was not a place for haste or desperation.

 

For a few hours at a time, they were not plotting, defending or expanding.

 

They were simply present. 

 

“A shame they don’t have Sinner’s flesh on the menu tonight,” Alastor remarked, his tone dry as he perused the options with mild disappointment.

 

Angel Dust hummed, squinting down at the menu printed on stiff, expensive paper. 

 

“Didn’t they have that last time?” he asked, flicking a glance up at Alastor. “I swear you ordered somethin’ real… specific.”

 

Alastor released a quiet, thoughtful hum. 

 

“Apparently it was a special. Limited availability. A shame, really.” 

 

“The soup looks pretty good, Al,” Angel said after another moment, tapping a claw against the menu. “We should try that one.”

 

Niffty, wholly unconcerned with the finer points of menu deliberation, shoved a handful of calamari into her mouth and crunched down with unapologetic enthusiasm. A pleased little noise escaped her as she chewed.

 

“I wouldn’t want us ordering duplicates,” Alastor replied. “We can always sample one another’s dishes. Variety is the point, after all.”

 

Angel grinned. “Not the worst idea.”

 

The restaurant was steeped in shadow and candlelight, the glow soft and flattering, flames flickering against dark wood and polished stone. The air carried the layered scents of cooked meats and spiced sauces. Somewhere nearby, a violin sang, its melancholy melody a constant. 

 

After a bit of contemplation, they ordered a spread designed for sharing. Small, carefully measured portions meant to be savored rather than devoured. A spread of meats, sliced fruits and roasted vegetables were soon arranged before them on ceramic platters. 

 

It was, unsurprisingly, exorbitantly expensive. 

 

Alastor allowed himself a single glass of dark wine that night, cradling it with a measured grace. Years ago, he would have indulged far more freely. Now, he drank with intention rather than compulsion. The craving that once gnawed at him had dulled to a quiet echo as of late. 

 

Life no longer bore the relentless pressure that had once threatened to grind him into something smaller. With the constant stress eased, he’d turned inward instead, investing in subtler forms of discipline and care. 

 

And as he sat there, surrounded by good food, familiar company and a rare sense of ease, he found himself content to simply exist in the moment.

 

Unfortunately, it did not last. 

 

Niffty was the first to react. 

 

Her chatter cut off mid-chew, her single eye narrowing as her attention snapped elsewhere, the plate forgotten entirely. 

 

A familiar scent had slipped into the room. One that rarely preceded anything pleasant. Instinctively, pulses quickened around the table, postures subtly shifting as all four of them turned their attention toward the same approaching presence.

 

Vox, in all his curated glory.

 

He looked… refined. 

 

His screen had been upgraded again into something sleeker and thinner. The tailored suit he wore was a deep blue, striped and pressed to perfection, fitting him like a second skin. He moved with the ease of someone who knew exactly where he stood in the hierarchy and delighted in reminding others of it.

 

Of course, decorum held.

 

Dante’s Inferno did not tolerate open conflict. Violence that risked structural damage and was swiftly and brutally addressed. And Vox knew that. 

 

He relished it.

 

“Alastor!”

 

The Alpha spread his arms as he approached, voice smooth and projecting just enough to draw eyes without causing a scene. His gaze slid past the others as though they were furniture, settling fully and unapologetically on the doe.

 

“Radiant as ever,” Vox continued, his tone indulgent. “Truly. You wear success beautifully.”

 

He executed a shallow, theatrical bow and then straightened - extending his hand expectantly, palm up. The gesture was familiar and intimate in nature.

 

Alastor felt his jaw tighten.

 

He released a quiet breath through his nose, schooling his expression back into something pleasant. Refusal here would not read as strength. It would read as provocation. And Vox wanted provocation - just not the kind that would get him thrown out and barred.

 

So Alastor complied.

 

His claws settled into Vox’s grasp, light but unavoidable. 

 

“Vincent,” he greeted, evenly.

 

God, how he despised the rules of it all. The rigid, suffocating etiquette that demanded civility from individuals who had torn at one another’s throats. That required politeness where none was deserved. That forced him to play the gracious Omega for the sake of appearances.

 

Vox lifted Alastor’s hand and pressed a kiss to his knuckles, lingering just a fraction too long - projected gaze flicking upward.

 

Vox released Alastor’s hand at last, smiling as though nothing at all were amiss.

 

“So,” he continued lightly, clasping his hands behind his back, “how have you been?”

 

“I’ve been fine, Vincent,” Alastor replied, the stiffness in his tone carefully restrained.

 

A low, barely-there rumble vibrated from the table. Husk’s pupils had narrowed to slits, his attention locked squarely on the television Overlord. Vox noticed and met the feline’s gaze with a knowing smirk before returning his attention to Alastor.

 

“It certainly looks like you’ve all been doing fine,” Vox went on conversationally, eyes sweeping over the table. “Dante’s Inferno isn’t exactly affordable. Even for most Overlords.”

 

“We’re well aware,” Alastor replied coolly. “Which makes me wonder why you’ve chosen to interrupt our meal. It’s rude, Vincent.”

 

“A man can’t greet his wife anymore?” Vox asked, mockingly mild. “I suppose the times really have changed.”

 

“They have,” Alastor said without missing a beat. “And if you’ve nothing of substance to say, then I believe this unwelcome distraction has reached its conclusion - ”

 

“Actually.”

 

Vox cut him off smoothly with a claw raised, the interruption precise enough to draw a flash of irritation across Alastor’s expression before he could suppress it.

 

“Alastor, baby,” Vox crooned, clearly savoring the reaction, “I do have something of importance to discuss. Something I’d rather not postpone. My apologies for the interruption, of course - I’ll happily cover the bill.”

 

“That won’t be necessary,” Alastor replied, primly. “We have no need of your charity. We’re doing quite well for ourselves.”

 

“I suppose you are,” Vox agreed, his gaze drifting over Angel Dust, Niffty and Husk. 

 

“If you’ve got somethin’ to say,” Husk growled, ears folding flat, “say it here and keep it movin’.”

 

Vox let out a soft, amused huff.

 

“I’m afraid this conversation is for Alastor’s ears only, cat,” he said dismissively. “He serves as your… representative, doesn’t he? I’m the face of the Vees. And Alastor - ” his smile sharpened, “ - is the face of whatever this little collective of yours is supposed to be.”

 

“Then type it up and send an email,” Husk shot back. “Can’t be that fuckin’ important.”

 

“Oh,” Vox replied pleasantly, turning back to Alastor, “but it is.”

 

Alastor exhaled slowly through his nose, the sound controlled but unmistakably weary. Angel Dust shot him a wary look. 

 

“Fine,” Alastor said at last.

 

Vox’s expression brightened immediately, satisfaction flickering across his screen.

 

“We’ll speak on the balcony, sweetheart,” he suggested. “A bit more privacy. But nothing too out of the way. Is that acceptable?”

 

“It is, Vincent,” Alastor replied, evenly.

 

Vox’s smile widened and he extended his hand as though the gesture were nothing more than polite formality. Alastor accepted it, allowing himself to be guided to his hooves. Vox, ever indulgent in these little tests, offered his arm next - a silent challenge wrapped in etiquette.

 

Alastor felt the familiar prickle of irritation crawl beneath his skin. Another small performance. Another reminder of who Vox believed still held the reins. But he did not hesitate. With a grace that bordered on theatrical, he slipped his arm through Vox’s. If Vincent wished to parade him, then he would do so flawlessly.

 

Together, they turned and began to walk, the measured cadence of their steps echoing faintly against marble. Vox guided him toward the balcony with all the smug confidence of a man convinced he was still in control.

 

Behind them, three sets of eyes followed every movement.

Notes:

The following chapters will dip far more into the political aspects of Hell's structure.

This will also dip into the concept of laws - both old and new - that involve the hierarchical structure. As well as how the King is entangled within the politics - with an emphasis on gender-based legislation - that I only hinted toward in previous chapters in a 'blink and you'll miss it' way.

I took inspiration from this concept from GW2 in regards to Charr and how the female of the species were treated after the betrayal of one female. Those who are familiar with that lore may have a small grasp of what may or may not happen.

Chapter 72: 72

The open air was a welcome reprieve.

 

Alastor let it wash over him, closing his eyes as the warm wind teased at his curls and skimmed along the exposed lines of his throat. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to simply breathe. The city stretched beneath the balcony in a sprawl of light and motion. Hell was alive and glittering in all its excess.

 

He felt Vincent’s gaze long before he opened his eyes.

 

When he did, it was to meet that familiar electric stare, brimming with a tension that never quite dissipated between them. Five years of conflict lay in that look. Five years of calculated cruelty and bloodied confrontations. 

 

And yet, here they stood, wrapped in forced civility. 

 

Alastor disengaged from Vox’s arm at last, folding his own across his chest as he stepped closer to the railing. He leaned forward, peering down at the city below, his ears flicking at the distant hum of traffic. The world went on, indifferent to their private war.

 

Something slipped into his periphery.

 

Two claws offering a cigarette - his preferred brand, of course.

 

He accepted it without comment, plucking it neatly from Vox’s grasp. A lighter followed. Alastor leaned in just enough for the flame to kiss the tip, inhaling deeply as it caught. Smoke curled from his nostrils in slow, fragrant plumes as he exhaled, posture loose. 

 

“What do you want, Vincent?” he asked at last.

 

He rested his forearms against the balcony’s edge, tail flicking idly behind him. Vox’s attention snagged on the movement before the Alpha stepped closer, coming to his side. He leaned in, just enough to invade Alastor’s space, close enough that the warmth of him was unmistakable.

 

“You know what I want.”

 

A quiet, noncommittal hum slipped from Alastor’s throat. 

 

He did not flinch nor recoil. 

 

Vox no longer inspired fear nor even the visceral reaction he once had. They were equals now, whether Vincent liked it or not. Five years had proven that much. Alastor had grown into his power and into a version of himself that no longer bent so easily beneath another’s gaze.

 

“At the moment,” Alastor replied, coolly, “I’m afraid I’ve nothing I’m willing to offer.”

 

“I beg to differ,” Vox said, smooth as ever.

 

Of course he wasn’t deterred. A single claw slowly traced along the curve of Alastor’s spine. The doe didn’t so much as twitch. He continued smoking, eyes fixed on the city below. 

 

“You should consider finding another Omega to occupy yourself,” Alastor said, flatly. “It would do wonders for your disposition.”

 

“It’s you I want.”

 

That earned a glance.

 

One brow arched, mild and unimpressed. 

 

“I’m aware.”

 

“You’re still my wife in the eyes of Hell’s law,” Vox continued. “Until I decide otherwise.”

 

Irritation flickered across Alastor’s expression. Because it was true. Marriage in the afterlife was no small thing, especially between Alpha and Omega. It bound more than bodies; it tethered souls, however faintly. A thin thread woven into the fabric of existence itself.

 

And ‘divorce’ was a luxury granted solely at an Alpha’s discretion.

 

Vox had never relinquished that claim.

 

Even though Alastor had been unaware the vows had been spoken and the binding had taken hold.

 

The ring remained upon his finger. 

 

It felt less like a union and more like a curse.

 

“I’m aware,” Alastor repeated, voice tighter now.

 

“Alastor.”

 

He didn’t look at him.

 

“Alastor.”

 

Vox’s touch withdrew only to return with more intent. Claws tipped his chin upward, forcing his gaze to meet that luminous screen. Alastor kept the cigarette between his claws, smoke drifting lazily as his eyes narrowed.

 

“I asked for privacy because I knew your… companions would object to whatever I say,” Vox said.

 

“What is it you want, Vincent?” Alastor asked coolly. “I’d like to return to my meal.”

 

Vox studied him for a long moment before finally relenting, his hand falling away.

 

“Very well,” he said. “I’ll be direct. Are you familiar with the laws that govern Hell?”

 

“Loosely.”

 

“Only loosely?” Vox echoed, unimpressed.

 

“The only ones that have ever concerned me,” Alastor replied, “are the laws regarding separation from one’s spouse - ”

 

Vox’s brow twitched.

 

“ - and the fact that none of us can leave the Pride Ring.”

 

“There are older laws,” Vox said at last. “They’re rarely invoked. But they exist all the same.”

 

Alastor’s smile tightened - just enough to betray the unease curling in his gut.

 

“And what,” he asked, “do these relics have to do with me? Even if I had violated one, I fail to see who would be foolish enough to enforce it.”

 

His gaze slid sideways, sharp and knowing.

 

“Unless,” he added softly, “you’re under the impression that would be you.”

 

Vox’s screen dimmed fractionally as he exhaled through his sensors.

 

“I’m not so deluded as to think brute force would work anymore,” he replied, voice tight. “Not with the strength you’ve acquired through… questionable means. The laws were written with assumptions in place, Alastor. Chief among them being that Omegas cannot defy their Alphas.”

 

His gaze locked onto him.

 

“You’re an anomaly. One the system never properly accounted for.”

 

“You flatter me,” Alastor sneered.

 

“Don’t mistake this for admiration,” Vox snapped. “Within the confines of Hell’s law, an Omega becomes the property of their spouse. They represent their household. Their conduct reflects directly upon it.”

 

Alastor hummed thoughtfully. 

 

“And here I thought I was merely living my life.”

 

His eyes flicked back to Vox, amusement sharpening his smile.

 

“Have I embarrassed you, Vincent?”

 

“You’ve done far more than that,” he growled, the fury he’d been holding at bay bleeding through. “Every day you exist as you are, you mock everything I’ve built. Everything I am.”

 

“It’s well-earned,” Alastor replied coolly.

 

“Is it?” Vox shot back. “Because from where I stand, you’ve turned yourself into a spectacle.”

 

Alastor tilted his head, feigning consideration. 

 

“I will concede that our… disagreements may have left me a bit unsympathetic.”

 

Vox dragged in a slow breath, eyes closing briefly as he fought for composure.

 

“I’ll say this one last time,” he said, low and dangerous. “In every way that matters, you belong to me. And yet you flaunt yourself at every opportunity. You cling to the arm of a Beta - play at Alpha and independence - and call it freedom.”

 

Alastor exhaled, smoke spilling deliberately across Vox’s screen.

 

“And there’s nothing you can do about it,” he replied. 

 

A beat.

 

“And that,” he added, lips curling, “is the best part.”

 

Vox’s claw tapped once against the balcony rail. 

 

“Is it?” he asked quietly. “Tell me, Alastor -  do you know who created these laws you’re so quick to dismiss?”

 

Alastor squinted, his amusement dimming as he inclined his head.

 

“By all means,” he said. “Enlighten me.”

 

“Lucifer Morningstar,” Vox replied. “They were created after Lilith’s ascendance. After her… betrayal.”

 

The words landed.

 

Alastor stilled.

 

For the briefest moment, the city’s distant noise seemed to recede. 

 

“Our stories share certain… similarities, don’t they?” Vox continued smoothly, his voice almost reflective. “I can’t help but wonder what Lucifer would make of it all.” 

 

His gaze sharpened. 

 

“Or are you operating under the rather optimistic assumption that he’d protect you from me if I were to present him with a formal grievance?”

 

Alastor did not answer immediately.

 

Instead, memory surged unbidden.

 

“If you are so eager to flee from my domain,” Lucifer had said, tone maddeningly bored, “then you will do so by crawling back to your husband and resting in his bed, rather than in the ones I have so generously provided.”

 

The words echoed now with renewed weight.

 

A spike of anxiety pierced him to his very core. Because the truth was this: he didn’t know. He didn’t know how Lucifer would respond. The King was an enigma by design. 

 

Lucifer was interested in him, yes - but not in any way Alastor could rely upon. 

 

There was nothing predictable about that man.

 

That monster.

 

“You intend to petition Lucifer,” Alastor said at last.

 

He straightened, but his eyes betrayed him - rounding just enough to signal genuine alarm.

 

“Are you being serious, Vincent?”

 

“You carry my mark,” Vox said evenly, the words deliberate. “You are my wife. I have every right to bring my claim before the crown and demand that you be returned to me.”

 

Alastor let out a sharp, humorless laugh, his ears flicking back. 

 

“Because you’re too weak to do it yourself?” he sneered. “Is that what this is? You need Lucifer to finish a fight you couldn’t win.”

 

Rather than bristle, Vox seemed… intrigued. His posture eased, shoulders relaxing as though Alastor’s defiance had only sharpened his interest. His screen tilted slightly.

 

“…I can’t help but notice,” Vox said, slowly, “that you don’t seem entirely confident Lucifer would protect you from me.”

 

His gaze narrowed, thoughtful.

 

“And really - why would he?”

 

Alastor’s jaw tightened, the faintest hitch in his breath betraying him.

 

“That would make sense,” Vox continued, almost conversational now. “Not once did he intervene when I touched you.”

 

Then he smiled. 

 

“You noticed that too, didn’t you?”

 

Alastor’s claws curled against the stone railing. 

 

“Of course,” Vox went on, voice warm with false generosity, “I’m not unreasonable. I could be persuaded to… reconsider pursuing formal action.” 

 

He leaned closer, lowering his voice. 

 

“All it would take is the right incentive.”

 

“I don’t have anything to offer you,” Alastor snapped, turning on him at last. “I sold my soul. There’s nothing left for you to take.”

 

“Yes,” Vox agreed. “You did.”

 

He studied Alastor with open interest now, gaze sweeping over him from ears to tail. 

 

“But from where I’m standing, sweetheart, the terms of your little arrangement don’t appear all that restrictive.” 

 

A low hum vibrated from his screen.

 

“That tells me something very important.”

 

Vox straightened, folding his hands neatly behind his back. 

 

“Lucifer has the power to take everything away from you in an instant,” he drawled. “Including the ability to play at freedom. Unless I’m wrong, of course. Were there any… stipulations in your little contract? Any limitations that would dictate otherwise?” 

 

“There must be stipulations,” Alastor forced out, breath hitching as he struggled to gather what remained of his composure. “Some clause - some provision -  fucking something - ”

 

“The staff for your soul,” Lucifer repeated, almost lightly. As though Alastor hadn’t spoken at all. As though this were a nursery rhyme he found endlessly amusing.

 

Alastor’s ears flicked sharply as his lips trembled. 

 

“I’m finished with this conversation.”

 

He extinguished the half-finished cigarette with a careless flick over the balcony rail. He’d taken only a single step when claws  closed around his wrist.

 

He whirled, glare sharp and immediate.

 

Vox didn’t release him.

 

“I won’t go to Lucifer,” Vox said, the edge in his voice finally surfacing, “if you’d just fucking talk to me. If you’d give me another chance.” 

 

His grip tightened, not quite bruising. 

 

 “We can reach an agreement. We can make this work.”

 

Restrained fury vibrates beneath Alastor’s skin.

 

“You make the other Overlords nervous,” Vox continued. “You and Angel Dust both. You’re unnatural. And it won’t be long before they all turn on you.”

 

Alastor bared his teeth, lips curling further back.

 

“It won’t be long,” Vox pressed, “before someone decides you and your friends need to be put back in their place. Until you overstep and make a mistake.” 

 

His gaze softened, almost earnest. 

 

“I can keep you safe, Alastor. I have kept you safe. All you have to do is let me. We can fix this, baby. Together.”

 

The doe’s pupils expand as he sinks into the darker depths of his mind. 

 

Vox leaned close again, whispering directly into his ear - his voice soft and horrifyingly intimate. “But you understand actions have consequences. This won’t happen again. We’re going to correct this. We can fix this, baby.” He drew back just far enough to meet Alastor’s eyes. “Together.”

 

The memories resurface in painful detail and cause his heart to pound painfully within the confines of his chest. 

 

His ears pin against his skull, pupils dilating.

 

That was enough.

 

He’s had enough.

 

Alastor wrenched his wrist free with a sharp twist, claws flashing just enough to score Vox’s sleeve. He didn’t look back as he turned away, every step measured despite the fury burning hot beneath his skin.

Chapter 73: 73

“Alastor - holy shit. Alastor. Are you okay?”

 

The world had narrowed to porcelain and bile.

 

Alastor hunched over the toilet, claws braced against the rim as his throat burned raw. His breaths came in sharp, uneven pants. His entire frame trembled, ears pinned flat against his skull, his eyes blown wide. 

 

The moment he’d turned the corner away from the balcony, he’d bolted. Down the corridor, through the dining hall and into the bathrooms. Anxiety twisted viciously in his gut, memories colliding with fear and fury until it all curdled into something unbearable.

 

“It’s alright,” a voice said, softly. “Hey - hey. It’s alright. I’m here, babe.”

 

Alastor made a broken, ragged sound that tore its way out of his chest. It wasn’t quite a sob. It wasn’t quite a growl. It was pain - raw and furious and humiliating all at once.

 

Everything he had built.

Everything he had fought for.

 

All of it balanced precariously on the whims of men who still looked at him and saw property. Something that needed to be owned and returned to its place.

 

His power rippled outward in an instinctive surge. Shadows writhed and curled along the tiled walls, trembling with his barely restrained desire to lash out and tear something apart. 

Then a hand settled gently against his back.

 

Alastor spat into the toilet and slowly lifted his head.

 

Angel Dust knelt beside him, concern etched plainly across his features. The spider Omega’s many eyes searched his face - taking in the tension pulled tight across his jaw and the tremor he couldn’t quite suppress. 

 

Something dark flickered through Angel’s expression. His lips pressed into a thin line.

 

“Tell me what happened,” Angel said, quietly.

 

❧

After gathering himself - and cutting their outing short - Alastor and Angel committed themselves to the depths of the old library that occupied the castle. It was a place few bothered to visit anymore, tucked away beneath layers of history, but it had been lovingly maintained all the same.

 

 An overnight servant led them through its arched entryways, lighting lamps as they went and leaving them with a warm, steady glow that chased away the worst of the shadows.

 

Alastor moved through the aisles with quiet purpose. His focus narrowed to anything that referenced Hell’s early governance, Omegas, marriage law or post-war restructuring. He’d done a cursory search before but Vox’s words had shifted something fundamental. He didn’t know how much Vox truly knew, nor what he intended to leverage - and that uncertainty gnawed at him.

 

Angel split his efforts, perched on the floor with his phone while half-listening to the rustle of pages. There was information online, sure - but it was vague at best. Modern commentary avoided the old statutes almost entirely, treating them like embarrassing relics rather than enforceable law.

 

There was still hope that Vox had been bluffing. That this was another elaborate attempt to frighten Alastor into compliance.

 

That hope didn’t survive the night.

 

Once they gathered a small stack of books, they settled in and began to read, hours bleeding together as candlelight burned low. 

 

History following Lilith’s departure was… illuminating.

 

Before she left, Lucifer had been deeply entangled in the inner workings of Hell’s governance. But it was Lilith who had fostered genuine relationships with its denizens. She had been their queen in more than name alone. 

 

There was something undeniably alluring about her presence, something that drew Sinners toward her rather than driving them into submission. While Lucifer remained the ultimate authority, Lilith served as his mouthpiece. 

 

She had been well loved and revered. She sought to maintain peace where she could, stability where possible. Sinners had been cast out of Heaven, yes - but under her guidance there had been no reason for them to live as feral beasts in the pits of Hell.

 

Omegas, in particular, had enjoyed comparatively greater freedom prior to her so-called betrayal. They were outnumbered, their souls naturally dampened by the Curse of Eve - but their status had been closer to that of Betas than property. Restricted, certainly. But not erased.

 

Lilith herself had been afforded considerable strength. Strength freely bestowed by Lucifer.

 

“That’s… a lil weird,” Angel murmured at one point, brow furrowing as he leaned closer to the text.

 

“Hm?” Alastor glanced up.

 

“Lilith was created before the Curse of Eve was even a thing, right?” Angel said, slowly. “She was an Omega, yeah - but she didn’t deal with the same shortcomings. She wasn’t the one who got cursed. That was Eve.”

 

Alastor reached across him, taking the book Angel had been skimming and squinting at the relevant passage.

 

“This claims Lucifer granted her her gifts directly,” Alastor remarked, ears flicking. 

 

It was a small detail - but one worth noting. Something they silently agreed to annotate and revisit later.

 

They moved on to older laws next and the shift in tone was immediate. These texts possessed a rigidity far beyond anything present in modern Hell. Back then, Hell had been a proper kingdom in every sense of the word. Life had been comparatively tolerable while Lucifer and Lilith remained a constant presence, their combined power keeping would-be tyrants firmly in their place.

 

It had been a decent place.

 

Once.

 

Then they turned the page.

 

Following Lilith’s departure, Lucifer withdrew and loosened his control over his kingdom. He remained King in title, but without a Queen he allowed the kingdom to rot. Governance collapsed. Oversight vanished. Sinners who remained, joined by those who continued to fall, rebuilt what they could.

 

Pentagram City rose from the ruins.

 

With it came new laws.

 

They were penned with brutal clarity, reshaping Hell’s hierarchy in the wake of chaos. Alphas were firmly placed at the top, Betas delegated as the workface of society and Omegas were downgraded to the status of sentient ‘property’. These laws were old and rarely referenced in modern Hell, but they had never been repealed.

 

They were still valid.

 

And Alastor was placed in a catastrophically vulnerable position.

 

As a married Omega, he was bound by statutes that Angel -  who had remained blessedly unmarried - was exempt from entirely. By those laws, everything Alastor owned, earned, or achieved belonged to Vox. His territory. His influence. His resources. Even his career as a radio host had never truly been his. The law had entitled Vox to his earnings outright.

 

All because of a bitter god who lashed out against his wife’s respective designation. 

 

“This don’t look too good, Al,” Angel said quietly.

 

“I know,” Alastor replied, the word clipped and tight.

 

They turned next to statutes regarding separation. 

 

Every passage said the same thing.

 

Any plea for divorce could only be approved by the Alpha.

 

There was exactly one exception.

 

Lucifer Morningstar.

 

Alastor pressed his claws to the bridge of his nose, resisting the urge to tear the pages apart.

 

“You need to talk to Lucifer,” Angel said after a long silence.

 

The doe let out a hollow breath.

 

“Do you honestly think he’d help me?”

 

“You have to try,” Angel insisted, tension souring his scent. “Al - this is bad. Like… really fuckin’ bad.”

 

“I know,” Alastor muttered. “God, I know.”

 

“It’s either him or Vox,” Angel said, flatly. “That’s it.”

 

The air between them grew heavy. Angel pulled his knees up to his chest and leaned back against a bookshelf, eyes burning.

 

“Why the fuck is it like this?” he snapped. “Why does it always have to be so fuckin’ hard? Every time we get something good, it’s like Hell decides we don’t deserve it.”

 

“Angel…”

 

“He’s tryin’ to take you away from us,” Angel continued, quieter now. “Again.”

 

Alastor swallowed hard.

 

“I’ll talk to Lucifer,” he said at last. “I’ll… plead my case. Maybe he’ll allow me a measure of mercy.”

 

Something vaguely resembling hope flickered across Angel’s face before he smothered it and looked away.

 

“We’ll figure something out,” Alastor added. “If nothing else… I’ll delay it. Allow us the time we need to puzzle out a solution.”

 

Angel exhaled shakily.

 

❧

“Well… shit.”

 

Adam’s voice carried from the bed as though Alastor had just told him about a minor inconvenience rather than a legal noose tightening around his throat.

 

From where he lounged - sprawled across Alastor’s bed in nothing but boxers, one arm tucked beneath his head - the half-exposed Alpha watched with mild interest as the doe paced the room. Alastor’s movements were sharp and restless, his nerves written plainly in the way his fingers fumbled with buttons and seams. His perpetual smile had thinned into something brittle, stretched too tight across his face.

 

He’d explained everything in clipped bursts. Taking care to mention Vox, the laws and Lucifer’s looming authority. In addition to the very real possibility of being dragged back into a bond he’d clawed his way out of. Adam had listened without interrupting, one brow occasionally quirking as he absorbed the information.

 

Alastor finally stilled long enough to glance over his shoulder.

 

“How familiar are you with those laws, Adam?”

 

“Familiar enough,” Adam replied, easily. 

 

He lazily scratched at his goatee, gaze never leaving Alastor. 

 

Alastor hesitated, then forced himself to ask the question that had been burning in his chest all night.

 

“Is there… anything,” he said, carefully, “anything at all that could help me?”

 

Adam winced. 

 

“You’re kinda fucked, babe.”

 

The words landed hard.

 

And the Adam paused, eyes flicking up toward the ceiling as he thought.

 

 “I mean,” he added slowly, “you could let someone else claim you. That’ll weaken that fuckface’s chances of getting you back.”

 

Alastor spun toward him, ears flattening.

 

“I’m not overwriting my bond with another Alpha,” he snapped. “That’s not a solution - that’s me walking headfirst into another cage.”

 

Adam blinked, unoffended. He then made a small show of thinking it over before shrugging.

 

“Then yeah,” he said, plainly. “Still fucked.”

 

“Get out.”

 

The words were sharp. 

 

Adam arched a brow as Alastor turned away, bracing his hands against the vanity. 

 

“I’m not in the mood to fuck tonight,” the doe continued, tightly. “And if you’re going to be useless, I don’t need you here.”

 

The Fallen Angel didn’t move. Didn’t even look particularly inclined to.

 

“Damn,” he drawled. “Harsh.”

 

Alastor bowed his head, breath shuddering as he sucked in a long, steadying inhale. His claws dug lightly into the polished surface beneath his palms.

 

“Why,” he muttered, voice low and strained, “am I surrounded by men who insist on driving me utterly insane?”

 

Adam squinted, genuinely considering the question.

 

“‘Cause it’s Hell?”

 

A pause.

 

“So… you sure about the whole ‘not fucking’ thing?” 

 

A low, aggravated groan tore its way out of Alastor’s chest.

Chapter 74: 74

“I do recall being in quite the mood when I drafted those laws.”

 

Lucifer’s voice was absentminded as he squinted down at the half-finished ship in a bottle resting on his desk. With painstaking care, he guided a minuscule beam into place, tongue just barely peeking between his teeth in concentration. A delicate tool hovered in his grip.

 

They were presently located in the devil’s personal office, Lucifer hunched slightly over his project. Alastor stood opposite the desk, posture immaculate and his claws folded neatly before him. One ear twitched despite his best efforts to remain composed.

 

“Then surely,” Alastor said, carefully, “you recognize that they’re rather… archaic.”

 

Lucifer hummed, not looking up. 

 

“Considering they came into existence in what you might generously call ‘ancient times,’ I should hope so. But they were necessary.” 

 

He shifted, selecting another tiny piece from a meticulously arranged tray.

 

 “After the war, clarity was required. Expectations needed to be… codified.”

 

He set the piece, adjusted it, then continued, “Everyone has a function. When I transitioned into the role of figurehead rather than ruler in practice, I ensured the hierarchy was unmistakable.”

 

“Omegas already lacked power,” Alastor replied, the smile on his lips tightening. “What purpose did further restriction serve?”

 

Lucifer finally glanced up, eyes sharp despite the languid tilt of his head. 

 

“A rigid hierarchy leaves little room for misunderstanding.”

 

“Or,” Alastor countered, a faint edge creeping into his tone, “you were throwing a tantrum over your wife’s defiance.”

 

Lucifer paused. Then he smiled.

 

“Mmm. Perhaps I was feeling a touch vindictive.”

 

He returned to his ship as though the admission were trivial.

 

Alastor exhaled slowly through his nose. 

 

“Do you loathe my sex so deeply, Lucifer?”

 

“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” Lucifer replied, lightly. “You and Angel Dust are delightful. Truly. You’ve brought a liveliness to my halls that hasn’t existed since Lilith departed.” 

 

His voice softened, almost indulgent. 

 

“Omegas possess a warmth others struggle to replicate. You make excellent adornments to my domain.”

 

Alastor’s right ear flicked despite himself. 

 

“I’m gratified we’ve amused you, Your Majesty,” he said, blandly.

 

Lucifer chuckled. 

 

“So. Vox has finally unearthed those old statutes.”

 

He glanced sideways at Alastor, eyes gleaming. 

 

“I did wonder when desperation would drive him to weaponize them.”

 

“He intends to petition you,” Alastor said, jaw tightening, “to have me returned to his… care.”

 

“I’ve received no such request yet,” Lucifer replied. “But patience has never been Vincent’s strength. I imagine it will arrive soon enough.”

 

“You cannot expect me to simply comply, Your Majesty.”

 

Lucifer straightened at last, setting his tools aside. He folded his hands atop the desk and regarded Alastor fully.

 

“Of course I do, pet.”

 

The word landed like a slap.

 

“If I decide you will return to your husband,” Lucifer continued, calmly, “you will do so.”

 

Alastor’s smile strained, ears angling downward. He did not interrupt.

 

“The law is the law,” Lucifer went on. “You belong to me in certain respects - but in the eyes of Hell, you are Vox’s wife. If he submits a formal plea, I will consider it.”

 

“My presence at that wedding was… negligible,” Alastor said. “I was scarcely conscious.”

 

Lucifer arched a perfect brow. 

 

“And?”

 

“He used hypnosis,” Alastor pressed. “I didn’t consent. It was a puppet - ”

 

Lucifer raised a finger.

 

“Rosie was your legal guardian,” he interrupted. “Her consent was sufficient. Vox did not require yours.” 

 

His tone remained maddeningly conversational. 

 

“He wanted your cooperation. You refused and he corrected that.”

 

Alastor’s claws curled.

 

“And the consummation?” he demanded.

 

Lucifer tilted his head. 

 

“He made it easier for you.”

 

“It wasn’t legitimate,” Alastor snapped. “He - ”

 

“You’re attempting to argue marital rape,” Lucifer supplied, already turning back to his ship. “An interesting concept. And entirely irrelevant here.”

 

Alastor went still.

 

“There is no such crime in Hell,” Lucifer continued. “A husband cannot violate what is lawfully his. Your feelings are immaterial.”

 

He squinted as a piece slipped from his grip, muttering softly before reclaiming it. 

 

“In the eyes of the law, Vincent is correct.”

 

Alastor’s breath shook. 

 

“There has to be something I can do. You can’t simply give me back to him.”

 

“I can,” Lucifer replied, pleasantly. “And I will - if it amuses me.”

 

Alastor swallowed. 

 

“And would that… ‘amuse you’? Have I displeased you?”

 

Lucifer finally looked up again, studying him with naked interest.

 

“Oh, no,” he said. “You’re endlessly entertaining.”

 

This was followed by a small, careless shrug

 

“But I have no quarrel with Vincent,” Lucifer continued mildly, as though he were discussing the weather. “And it would be terribly unfair of me to deprive a man of his wife.”

 

Alastor’s jaw tightened. 

“You’ve always been partial to Alphas, haven’t you, Your Majesty.”

 

Lucifer considered that, lips pursing as he reached once more for his tools. 

 

“Perhaps,” he admitted. “They are efficient. After my… withdrawal from day-to-day governance, they ensured Pentagram City continued to function.”

 

A pause followed. 

 

“I get the sense,” Lucifer said at last, “that you believe I’m apathetic toward your husband. Or worse - harboring some distaste for him.”

 

Alastor studied his face, searching for cracks in that polished composure. He found none so he said nothing.

 

Lucifer smiled faintly. 

 

“Vox is fascinating, truly. He’s evolved considerably since the day he first stood before me. I’ve followed his ascent with interest - especially after he bound himself to you.” 

 

His tone warmed, just slightly.

 

“He’s carved himself into the very backbone of media. His allies are influential. His reach impressive. He’s destined for something… enduring.”

 

The warmth in those words made Alastor’s stomach twist.

 

“I find both of you compelling,” Lucifer went on, entirely unbothered by the effect he was having. “It’s a shame you never paired properly. Your progeny would have been exquisite.”

 

Alastor recoiled before he could stop himself, revulsion flashing across his features. A sharp, visceral response.

 

Lucifer noticed and laughed softly.

 

“Oh?” Lucifer drawled. “Does the idea of motherhood still disgust you that much? It’s inevitable, you know. Someone of your caliber - a high-quality bitch - would be terribly wasted otherwise.”

 

The words settled like poison in Alastor’s chest. He felt them sink deep and Lucifer’s smile only widened as he fixed the doe with an openly amused gaze. 

 

“What would you have me do?” Alastor demanded at last, the edge in his voice carefully restrained. “I’ve finally become an Overlord. As has Angel. We stand to lose everything - ”

 

“You stand to lose everything,” Lucifer corrected.

 

Alastor’s ears flattened at once.

 

“Angel Dust remains an unmarried Omega,” the devil continued, unbothered. “And as such, he is entirely mine. He will remain here if you are returned to your husband.”

 

Alastor sucked in a sharp breath, his claws curling reflexively at his sides.

 

“Niffty, Husk and Angel Dust are all free of Vox’s legal reach,” Lucifer went on, voice almost gentle now. “It is you, my dear, who stands to lose ‘everything.’” 

 

His eyes glittered. 

 

“I do wonder… would they throw themselves into the fire for your sake?”

 

That, finally, made Lucifer set his tools aside. His full attention settled on Alastor, intrigue sharpening his features as he leaned back slightly in his chair.

 

“You have two options,” he said.

 

He raised one finger.

 

“First: you return to your husband on your own terms. You find an arrangement you can endure - one that allows you to retain at least some fraction of what you’ve built over the past five years.”

 

Then a second finger rose.

 

“Second: Vox submits a formal petition. He argues his claim before the crown - before you, Adam and myself as witnesses. And I will permit you the courtesy of arguing against him.”

 

It was a sliver of mercy. Barely even that. A fragile, almost insulting concession.

 

But it was something.

 

Alastor stood there in silence, mind racing as he weighed the implications. He didn’t yet know what Vox truly wanted. 

 

Technically, he could attempt both paths.

 

And that realization alone made his stomach twist.

 

“Is that all you need, pet?” Lucifer asked lightly, already sounding bored again, as though the conversation had been no more than an amusing diversion.

 

Alastor hesitated for the briefest fraction of a second before he responded.

 

“…Yes, Your Majesty.”

 

Lucifer’s expression brightened immediately. He clapped his hands together once, the sound echoing softly through the office.

 

“Wonderful! You’re excused,” he declared. “These little talks of ours are quite exhilarating, aren’t they?”

 

Alastor’s jaw tightened. He swallowed hard, the effort visible as he reined himself in yet again.

 

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

 

Satisfied, Lucifer flicked a casual gesture toward the door, already turning his attention back to the ship in its bottle as though Alastor had ceased to exist the moment his compliance was confirmed.

 

“Then you may leave.”

 

Alastor bowed. 

 

The movement was precise and rigid with contained fury. He straightened, turned without another word and made his exit, every step measured as he carried his dread and his narrowing options back into the halls of the castle.

Chapter 75: 75

Vox sipped at his wine, posture entirely lax as he lingered over the glass. Their meal had yet to arrive, though the drinks had been delivered promptly - a bottle set between them, uncorked and offered with the quiet implication that it was meant to be shared freely.

 

Alastor had allowed himself a single glass. Not a drop more.

 

He nursed it with careful restraint, claws curled around the stem as though it might steady him. His composure held - but only just. The edge of his nerves bled through his scent regardless, spice tinged with a bitter undertone he couldn’t quite suppress. 

 

If Vox noticed, he made no comment. 

 

That, somehow, was worse.

 

He hadn’t told the others about this meeting. He told himself it was practicality, but the truth was uglier. Shame sat heavy in his chest. Fear, too. The quiet dread that they might look at him and see someone who needed rescuing. Someone too weak to handle his own mess.

 

It was ridiculous. They would worry because they cared. They always had.

 

But Lucifer’s voice lingered.

 

Would they throw themselves into the fire for your sake?

 

Alastor lifted the glass again and took another careful sip, letting the wine rest briefly on his tongue before swallowing. His claws lightly trembled before he steadied them against the table.

 

He’d dressed carefully. It was clothing chosen not for comfort, nor for his own taste, but because Vox had explicitly requested he “dress nicely.” Attire that leaned into what was expected of an Omega. It galled him. But he was here to barter, and if appealing to Vincent’s sense of propriety gave him even the slightest advantage, he would stomach it.

 

What grated most was that Vox hadn’t rushed the point.

 

Instead, he treated the meeting as a proper lunch. As though this were a pleasant indulgence rather than a negotiation with Alastor’s future hanging in the balance.

 

Eyes were on them. Alastor could feel it - the glances and the careful looks stolen from nearby tables. Five years of very public conflict did not go unnoticed, especially not among Hell’s upper echelons. He could practically hear the murmurs already. 

 

It was humiliating.

 

Another sip.

 

The food arrived soon after. Vox had ordered fish - baked, delicately seasoned and paired with roasted vegetables and lemon. Alastor’s plate held something richer - slices of meat seared perfectly, tasting vaguely of beef and pork in equal measure. Normally, he might have appreciated it.

 

Today, he barely registered the flavor.

 

Vox eventually broke the silence.

 

“How have you been?”

 

“I’ve been fine, Vincent. Thank you,” Alastor replied, politely. 

 

They spoke of trivial things then. Neutral topics and harmless observations. The sort of conversation designed to ease one into heavier matters without upsetting the appetite. 

 

Alastor forced himself to eat, taking small, measured bites, though nausea coiled stubbornly in his gut. More than once he thought he might be sick. Each time, he swallowed it down, dabbed at his mouth with a handkerchief, pretending it was nothing more than grease or crumbs.

 

His glass emptied quickly.

 

When Vox reached for the bottle to refill it, Alastor lifted a hand in quiet refusal.

 

“I’ll order a water,” he said.

 

Vox paused then set the bottle aside without comment.

 

By the time the plates were cleared, Alastor was working his way through the water, using it to coax the last of the meal down. It was only then that Vox spoke again.

 

“I’m glad you agreed to meet me like this,” he said. “When was the last time we actually… talked? Like this, I mean.”

 

Alastor didn’t look at him right away. 

 

“Years, I suppose,” he replied. “If you don’t count our little encounter at Dante’s Inferno.”

 

“Right. Right.”

 

Vox took another unhurried sip of wine, the rim of the glass catching the low light as his gaze remained fixed on Alastor’s face. He didn’t look away. It was intimate in the most aggravating way.

 

“We’ve been married for thirty-five years now,” he said, mildly. “Nearly thirty-six now.”

 

“And six of those have been spent estranged,” Alastor replied.

 

The television Overlord hummed, a low sound of contemplation, eyes roving over the Omega as though he were assessing something familiar yet newly altered.

 

“I wouldn’t be forcing this,” Vox said at last, “if there were any chance you’d agree to a meeting like this without something hanging over your head, Alastor.”

 

Red claws stilled against the table. 

 

“Did you even bother to try?”

 

“No,” Vox answered. “Because despite what you seem to think, I know you. I know you better than anyone else.”

 

Alastor’s smile sharpened, just slightly.

 

“Do you, Vincent?”

 

“Most certainly.”

 

“You wear your arrogance well,” Alastor remarked, lifting his glass of water and taking a measured sip.

 

Vox’s mouth curved into a pleased, knowing smirk.

 

“I certainly hope so.”

 

“How about we get to the point,” Alastor said at last, setting his glass down with deliberate care. “What do you want, Vincent?”

 

Vox didn’t answer immediately. He leaned back in his chair instead, projected eyes half-lidded in a way that suggested confidence rather than ease.

 

“You already know what I want.”

 

The doe scoffed quietly, ears flicking back. 

 

“Then humor me. Allow me to feign ignorance.” His gaze sharpened. “What do you want?”

 

“I want my wife back.”

 

Alastor let out a low, incredulous breath. 

 

“To do what, exactly? Play housemaid?” the doe questioned. “You can afford staff to tend to your quarters, Vincent. You can also afford someone to warm your bed - assuming Valentino isn’t already doing that for you.”

 

Vox’s expression tightens, irritation flashing across his screen before smoothing back into something controlled. 

 

“Neither of them can replace you, Alastor.”

 

“You flatter me,” he replied flatly, unmoved.

 

“I’m serious, sweetheart.” 

 

Vox leaned forward now, forearms resting against the table. 

 

“Do you honestly think I’d just let you go? That I could forget what we had?”

 

Alastor’s eyes narrowed. 

 

“And what, precisely, did we have?”

 

“What we still have,” Vox corrected at once, his voice firm. “We were the couple of Pentagram City. You and me. We had influence. We had something special.”

 

A brittle smile tugged at Alastor’s mouth. 

 

“Ah,” he murmured. “So that’s it.”

 

The Omega tilts his head. 

 

“You want a reunion for the cameras? A pretty little reconciliation arc to shore up your reputation? Is this just another media stunt?”

 

Vox’s gaze darkened.

 

“It’s more than that,” Vox said, the edge of bravado slipping just enough to sound sincere. “And you know it. Finding you was the best thing that ever happened to me. You made me happy.” 

 

His gaze softened, almost earnest.

 

“And I know - if you’d let me - I could make you happy too.”

 

Alastor crossed his arms, shoulders drawing in as he turned his face away.

 

“I’m not going to be happy playing the housewife for an eternity, Vincent.”

 

“Alastor, baby.”

 

Vox reached across the table, his grip firm as he pried Alastor’s hands free from their closed-off knot, holding them between his claws. 

 

“Look at me.”

 

A quiet, unsteady breath escaped the doe before he complied, lifting his gaze. His ears lay partly flattened against his skull, a clear tell he didn’t bother to hide.

 

“I’ll give you the freedom you want,” Vox said, carefully. “If you come back to me. You can be the Overlord you always wanted to be.”

 

Alastor blinked.

 

Then he blinked again.

 

“… Excuse me?”

 

Vox tightened his hold, just slightly. 

 

“We can be a power couple - in the literal sense,” he said, conviction ringing through his voice. “Everything you’ve built. Everything you own. It’ll be yours.”

 

The doe stared at him, disbelief etched into every line of his face. 

 

“You can’t be serious.”

 

“I am,” Vox said. “After five years, I think it’s time we figured out how to actually make this work.”

 

The words settled wrong in Alastor’s chest. A sharp, instinctive unease flared. Something about this was off. It had to be. Vox never offered anything without strings. 

 

“If this is some sort of deal - ” Alastor began.

 

“No deal,” Vox interrupted, smoothly. “It’s just us, baby.”

 

He reached forward and threaded their claws together, his larger paw swallowing Alastor’s with deliberate intimacy - cool blue pressing against deep red. The contact was grounding in the worst way, familiar enough to make his stomach knot.

 

“Just give this a chance,” Vox said. “Give us a chance.”

 

The doe swallowed hard. Guilt twisted through him, sharp and corrosive. Angel’s face flickered unbidden through his mind. Husk. Niffty. The life he’d clawed into existence with them. The thought of what they would think - what Angel would feel - made his chest ache.

 

“You’re talking like I actually have a choice,” Alastor whispered. 

 

“You do, sweetheart.”

 

Vox’s eyes slipped half-lidded, his voice dropping into something soft and devastatingly controlled. 

 

“Either you come back to me willingly,” he said, each word precise, “and keep your position as an Overlord - ”

 

He leaned in just enough for Alastor to feel the weight of him.

 

“ - or I take everything away from you.”

 

Everything.

 

The word echoed. 

 

Alastor’s eyes slid shut as he forced himself to breathe. His chest rose and fell slowly before the rhythm fractured, speeding as panic clawed its way up his throat. The edges of the room felt too close as the weight of Vox’s words pressed down on him until it became difficult to think at all.

 

“I need - ” His voice caught. 

 

He swallowed hard and tried again. 

 

“I need to think about this.”

 

Vox did not soften.

 

“It’s a yes or a no, sweetheart,” he replied, evenly. “We can discuss the stipulations here, in detail.”

 

The Alpha’s cool, unblinking gaze lingered on him, cataloguing every tell - the tremor in his claws, the way his ears angled back and the sour spike of fear bleeding into his scent. Cruel satisfaction flickered there.

 

“Go to the restroom,” Vox continued, almost kindly. “Don’t leave. I’ll know if you do. Go calm down.”

 

Only then did he release him.

 

Alastor rose on unsteady hooves, the chair scraping softly as he stood. His movements were stiff, obedience carved into muscle memory he hated himself for still possessing. Vox’s eyes followed him the entire way as he retreated, each step heavier than the last, until the restroom door shut behind him and cut the Alpha from view.

 

“Fuck. Fuck.”

 

The word broke out of him in a ragged whisper.

 

He staggered to the wall and collapsed against it, sliding down until he hit the floor. His claws came up to cover his face as his body began to shake in earnest, his breath hitching and chest tight with a pressure that felt unbearable.

 

Everything.

 

The word echoed again, louder this time. 

 

He dragged his claws through his perfectly maintained hair, fingers biting into the roots as if pain might anchor him. Rage twisted and reshaped itself into fear. He thought of Angel’s laugh, of the warmth of Husk at his side and of Niffty’s devotion and small hands tugging at his sleeves. 

 

Of the life they’d built together. 

 

Of everything he stood to lose.

 

His eyes burned. His vision blurred. He squeezed them shut, his teeth clenched hard enough to ache.

 

He wanted Angel here - arms around him, voice soft and swearing and real. 

 

He wanted Niffty’s fingers carding through his hair, grounding him in her strange, feral affection. 

 

He wanted Husk’s solid weight, the low rumble of his purr vibrating through his bones and reminding him he wasn’t alone.

 

But there was no one.

 

Just tile. Cold walls. His own ragged breathing.

 

He curled inward, shaking.

 

He was alone.

 

He was alone.

Chapter 76: 76

Eventually, he cleaned himself up.

 

He had done it before. Countless times, really - long before tonight. Moments where everything became too much and he had been quietly ushered away so as not to make a scene. Vox had always been adept at recognizing the subtle tells: the way Alastor’s smile went rigid at the edges, the way his ears twitched and the way his breath shortened just enough to be noticeable if one knew what to look for. 

 

He’d called them Alastor’s Omega episodes and excused him somewhere discreet so he could break down where no one important could see.

 

Alastor leaned over the sink now, fixing his hair strand by careful strand, dabbing at the corners of his eyes until the faint redness receded. He adjusted his expression with practiced precision. The version of himself that emerged in the mirror was familiar. 

 

Presentable.

 

It took him roughly ten minutes.

 

Once, when both he and Angel had been firmly within the Vees’ grasp, anything longer than fifteen would have prompted intervention. They didn’t like either Omega out of reach for too long. 

 

He had to look content.

He had to look happy.

 

So when he stepped back into the restaurant, his chosen smile was already in place - exposing just the right amount of teeth.

 

Vox noticed him immediately.

 

His gaze snapped to Alastor the moment he reentered his line of sight, satisfaction flickering across the screen of his face as the Omega settled back into his seat with the poise expected of him.

 

“Feeling better, sweetheart?” Vox asked.

 

“Much better, Vincent,” Alastor replied, his tone smooth and sweet.

 

Vox grinned. Alastor mirrored it.

 

“Good,” the Alpha said. “Then we can finally discuss the finer details.”

“Of course,” Alastor replied, folding his claws neatly in his lap.

 

What soon caught him off guard was that Vox’s proposal didn’t stop with him.

 

“I know you’re close to your friends,” Vox continued, swirling the last of his wine. “And I don’t want you to feel isolated. A support system is important. Healthy, even.”

 

Alastor’s ears twitched.

 

The Vees and his companions had spent nearly five years openly antagonizing one another. What Vox was proposing wasn’t reconciliation but something closer to a merger. Not formal nor binding. Just… peaceful coexistence beneath the watchful eye of the public and the ever-hungry lens of media.

 

“You think they’d agree?” Alastor asked carefully.

 

Vox chuckled softly. 

 

“For your sake? Absolutely. I can’t imagine them being comfortable leaving you to navigate all of this alone.”

 

He hated that Vox wasn’t wrong.

 

“And consider this,” Vox added, smoothly. “You’re the only one truly locked into this arrangement. Your friends - Angel Dust included - remain free. They can come and go as they please. All I’m offering is proximity. Cooperation. And perhaps,” his grin sharpened, “a little extra profit for their trouble.”

 

Alastor nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful.

 

He would leave the decision to them. 

 

And yet, beneath the composure, a selfish part of him ached at the idea - at the comfort of knowing they might remain close and within reach. Where he wouldn’t be entirely alone again.

 

That it wouldn’t just be him and Vees and no one else. 

 

They shifted, inevitably, to the subject of Alastor’s day-to-day living arrangements.

 

“You’ll be staying in the penthouse,” Vox said, tone calm and authoritative. “That will be your primary residence going forward. We’re married, Alastor. And I fully intend for us to live as husband and wife.”

 

Alastor felt the words settle like lead in his chest. His smile held, but only just. The tightening at the corners of his mouth betrayed him despite his effort and his ears angled back a fraction before he schooled them still. He inclined his head in a short, precise nod. 

 

“Early mornings will also be ours to share a meal together,” Vox continued, unbothered by the Omega’s silence. “I expect you present. After that - from nine in the morning until six in the evening - your time is your own. You can spend it however you wish.”

 

Alastor resisted the instinctive urge to shift in his chair, claws flexing once against the linen before he stilled them.

 

“And if I wish to go out at night?” he asked, voice even.

 

Vox didn’t answer immediately. He watched him instead, projected eyes narrowing just slightly as if weighing how much resistance remained beneath that polished composure.

 

“You’ll ask,” Vox said at last. “And I’ll approve or deny.”

 

Alastor’s gaze flickered, sharp but fleeting.

 

“I’d like to request no fewer than several nightly outings a week,” he said, carefully.

 

Vox hummed, fingers tapping once against the table as he considered it. The pause was deliberate - long enough to remind Alastor who held the final word.

 

“Fine,” Vox said, eventually. “Several a week. Within reason.”

 

The word reason lingered unpleasantly between them. 

 

Alastor nodded again, his smile never faltering, even as something tight and aching curled low in his stomach.

 

“You promised freedom,” Alastor said carefully, his tone measured despite the tension threading through it. “What you’re describing feels… conditional.”

 

Vox’s projected eyes sharpened at once, the warning clear. It was subtle, but it was enough to make Alastor’s ears dip despite himself. The movement betrayed him and he hated that it did.

 

“This is more freedom than most Omegas are ever allotted,” Vox replied. “You’ll have complete autonomy during the hours I outlined. So long as that autonomy isn’t spent embarrassing my brand, you’re welcome to live much as you did before.”

 

The phrasing made Alastor’s jaw tighten. Still, he inclined his head in a small, subdued nod, acknowledging the point. 

 

“While you remain with me,” Vox continued, voice smooth and unyielding, “I expect you to fulfill your duties as my wife. A maid will manage the bulk of the household work - I’m not unreasonable. But if I request a meal, I expect it. And if I desire intimacy - ”

 

“Vincent.”

 

The interruption was soft but firm. Vox’s brow twitched, irritation flashing briefly across the screen.

 

“If I expect intimacy,” Vox corrected, his tone sharpening just a fraction, “then you will perform your duties accordingly. Is that understood?”

 

Silence stretched between them. Alastor’s gaze dropped to the table, his claws curling slowly into his palms as he fought to keep his breathing steady. 

 

“Alastor,” Vox prompted. “I expect an answer.”

 

“Yes, Vincent,” he said at last, voice even. “I understand.”

 

A pleased hum escaped Vox, as though the matter had been settled neatly and without complication.

 

“There is also the strict expectation that you won’t be intimate with anyone else,” Vox continued, his tone deceptively casual. “I do recall those little markings you used to flaunt years ago.”

 

The words landed heavily. Alastor’s thoughts betrayed him at once - Angel Dust’s warmth and Adam’s presence; the fragile pockets of comfort he’d carved out for himself beyond Vox’s reach. 

 

He locked them away immediately, sealing them off behind practiced composure. Those truths would remain his alone. 

 

Especially Angel.

 

“Yes, Vincent,” he repeated.

 

Vox watched him for a moment longer, as if gauging whether the response satisfied him. Then he continued, folding his hands neatly together atop the table.

 

“And whenever we’re present before the media, I expect you to behave as you always have,” he said. “The version of yourself everyone recognizes. The Radio Demon.”

 

Alastor’s smile twitched faintly at the edges, a ghost of habit rather than amusement.

 

“It appears the public is quite fond of the persona you’ve cultivated,” Vox went on, almost approvingly. “I expect you to maintain that image. For appearances’ sake.”

 

“Of course,” Alastor replied. “I’ve never had any trouble performing.”

 

Vox’s projected smile widened at that while Alastor kept his own expression carefully arranged.

 

“I expect you to occasionally make appearances with Velvette, Valentino and myself,” Vox continued. “A united front is preferable. While we mourn the loss of Angel, your presence will suffice.”

 

The mention of their names alone made something coil tight in Alastor’s gut. Velvette’s sharp eyes and Valentino’s hands. The memories crowded too close for comfort and it took effort not to shift in his seat. 

 

He inclined his head instead. 

 

“Your career will remain your own,” Vox went on. “You may broadcast from the Vee Tower or from your own. Any profits you incur will belong entirely to you.”

 

Alastor listened as the Alpha laid out the remaining details regarding business. The language was clinical and entirely contractual. 

 

He could do this.

He could do this.

 

He repeated it to himself as Vox spoke, as though repetition alone might make it true.

 

“Now,” Vox said, lightly, “regarding your heat.”

 

Alastor blinked, the word cutting through his thoughts.

 

“Yes,” he replied, carefully.

 

“We’ll be sharing it,” Vox said. “I believe it’s time we seriously consider starting a proper family.”

 

The air left Alastor’s lungs all at once.

 

“Vincent,” he said, measured but strained, “you know I can’t - ”

 

“And why is that?” Vox interrupted. 

 

“I - ” Alastor faltered, then steadied himself. “How am I supposed to function as an Overlord if I’m pregnant?”

 

Vox waved a dismissive hand, as though the concern were trivial. 

 

“A few years at most. Less if we secure a caretaker.”

 

“No,” Alastor said.

 

The single word landed hard.

 

Vox’s projected expression sharpened. 

 

“No?”

 

“I refuse.” Alastor straightened in his seat, ears pinned back. “I can accept everything else but not that.”

 

“Alastor - ”

 

“No, Vincent,” he cut in, sharper now. “I would rather risk you petitioning Lucifer than accept this.”

 

For a long moment, Vox said nothing. Then he released a slow, irritated sigh - his claws drumming once against the table as his gaze bore into Alastor.

 

“We’ll delay that part of the conversation, then,” Vox said. “You’ve kept me waiting for decades, Alastor. I can tolerate a few more years.”

 

“Then my heats - ” the doe began.

 

“We’ll still be sharing them,” Vox cut in, seamlessly. “But with one added stipulation. You’ll take birth control.”

 

For a heartbeat, Alastor simply stared at him. Relief came first followed immediately by suspicion. Vox did nothing without calculation. Nothing came without strings.

 

After a moment, he inclined his head.

 

“…Very well.”

 

The word tasted bitter, but it was better than the alternative. He was being cornered from every possible angle; this, at least, gave him room to breathe. For now.

 

“Thank you, Vincent,” he added, carefully polite.

 

“Of course, sweetheart,” Vox replied, satisfied. 

 

There was a warmth in his voice that did nothing to soothe the unease curling in Alastor’s stomach.

 

The Alpha reached for his wine again, unhurried. 

 

“I’ll give you time to prepare. I’ve upgraded the penthouse since you left.”

 

His gaze lingered, the look possessive. 

 

“I think you’ll like it,” he continued. “It has everything you could possibly need.”

 

Alastor gave a small, measured nod.

 

The penthouse was a cage. A beautiful one but a cage all the same. One that would boast an unlocked door at first, just long enough to lull him into a false sense of security, before it inevitably slammed shut.

 

But he could survive it.

 

He had survived it, once. 

 

Thirty years of careful smiles and measured obedience, of knowing exactly when to bend and when to still. This time, at least, there was no formal deal binding him - no contract etched into his soul. That absence granted him a sliver of maneuverability. Not freedom. But room to breathe.

 

He could live a decent life, so long as he played Vincent’s tune on the surface. So long as he performed the role convincingly enough to keep the worst at bay.

 

“I expect you to behave as a wife should while in my company,” Vox continued. “I’ve no desire to reprimand you, Alastor. But I will if it becomes necessary.”

 

The words were delivered with chilling ease.

 

“You’ll accept any punishments given - quietly,” he added, “and with respect.”

 

Something in Alastor’s expression tightened, just briefly. A flicker at the edges of his smile. His ears angled downward a fraction before he corrected them, schooling his posture back into something presentable.

 

He had expected this.

 

Of course he had.

 

“I will revoke any privileges granted should you fall short of expectation,” Vox continued, evenly. “Temporarily, of course. I believe in fairness. But as your husband, it is my responsibility to ensure you’re kept in line. Going forward, if there are any addendums to this arrangement, they will be communicated clearly - for your benefit as well as my own. I won’t punish you for something I failed to clarify beforehand.”

 

Alastor remained silent.

 

The quiet stretched. 

 

“Alastor,” Vox said at last, his tone sharpening. “I expect an answer.”

 

“Yes, Vincent.”

 

“Do you understand?”

 

“Yes, Vincent.”

 

“Look at me when I’m speaking to you, sweetheart.”

 

He did.

 

Alastor lifted his gaze and met the glow of Vox’s screen. The smile he wore was carefully constructed, betraying nothing of the turmoil roiling beneath it. His ears twitched once before settling.

 

Vox studied him with an expression Alastor couldn’t quite decipher. 

 

“This is for your own good. You've had your fun. And now it's time to come home,” Vox said, quietly. “You understand that, right?”

 

There was the briefest hesitation. A fraction of a heartbeat where Alastor’s breath caught.

 

“…Yes, Vincent.”