I shut up about the call. I knew he wanted me to ask about it.
The mug was still warm between my palms. Emiliano sat across from me, slicing into toast with the kind of calm that made my skin crawl. Like we were just roommates. Like I hadn't woken up stitched together on a metal slab.
He set his knife down with a soft click and smiled. "You're stronger than you look."
"Oh?" I said, voice dry. "Did that become obvious before or after you sedated me like a misbehaving chihuahua?"
That grin of his ticked wider. Not smug. Just amused. Like he was privately grading my survival instinct.
"I thought we'd take a walk," he said, rising. "Stretch your legs. See something special."
That sent a cold flick through my spine. "You always court your guests with mystery dungeons, or am I just lucky?"
He didn't answer. Just beckoned.
The hallway past the kitchen was lined in soft gray paint and mismatched family portraits. Fake ones. I could tell by the way they were smiling. It smelled like laundry sheets and lemon cleaner, and for a minute I could almost pretend we were walking toward a garage or wine cellar.
Then he opened the door at the end.
The air changed.
Colder. Drier. No trace of sunlight down there. The stairs creaked beneath us, the kind that warned you to turn back, not keep going. My bare feet ached on the concrete by the time we hit the bottom.
Emiliano flipped a switch.
At first, all I saw were jars.
Dozens. No—hundreds. Lined on shelves, suspended in pale blue fluid. Labeled with dates and codes I couldn't read. Some were cracked with age. Others looked disturbingly fresh.
It took a full breath before I realized what I was looking at.
Skin. Preserved pieces of it. Each one centered around a tattoo-like marking—delicate, organic, blooming.
Omega flowers.
I froze.
My heart made a sick little skip in my chest.
Emiliano stopped in front of the far wall, where a soft light bled from behind a glass case. "You know," he said almost conversationally, "omegas are so… poetic. The way your bodies work. That little flower blooming across your stomach—it's practically art."
I froze.
He tilted his head, amused at the way my breath caught. "You didn't think I knew? That I hadn't seen it before?"
Behind the glass, each square of preserved skin bore the same haunting image: a flower in full bloom. Some looked like bleeding hearts. Others like belladonna or oleander. All centered around the lower abdomen. All beautiful. All grotesque.
"They bloom," Emiliano murmured, voice low and reverent, "in that exact moment. When you're undone. When your body can't lie anymore. Nature's little signature."
My mouth was dry. "You cut them out when they—"
"—when they're perfect," he finished, smiling faintly. "A single moment, captured forever."
"I'd offer you a tour," he went on, "but most guests tend to get emotional. Ruins the vibe."
"You're insane," I breathed.
"And you're stunning when you're terrified." He tilted his head. "But let's not be rude. Pick a favorite."
I took a step back. Just one. But he caught it. That slight retreat didn't go unnoticed.
His smile curved, slow. "You didn't strike me as squeamish, Luther."
"I'm not squeamish," I said, pulse hammering. "I just don't usually spend my mornings surrounded by orgasmic floral taxidermy."
That earned a laugh. A real one. Warm, rich, infuriating. " No wonder Claus never shut up about you."
I didn't flinch at the name, but my nails dug into my palms. "You mean the guy who delivered me like a fruit basket to this horror show?"
"You wound me." Emiliano spread his arms. "Is this not the most curated exhibit of omega beauty you've ever seen?"
"Is that what you call it?" I glanced around the jars, bile rising. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like a butcher shop run by a botanist with a hard-on."
He laughed again. "Your metaphors are getting filthier."
"Your hobbies are getting harder to ignore."
His gaze sharpened, and for a moment, something darker flashed in his expression—pride, maybe. Or something hungrier.
He walked toward a central display—a backlit, glass-encased panel. Unlike the jars, this one was mounted upright, almost reverent in presentation. A single bloom, pale as bone with dark purple veins stretching out like cracks in porcelain.
"This one," he said softly, "came from an omega who fought me until the last second. I didn't think it would bloom at all." He turned his head just enough to look at me. "They always do. Eventually."
My stomach flipped.
I forced a shrug. "You must be a riot on first dates."
He grinned. "I don't do dates. I do research. And I like results."
"What is this even for?" My voice cracked around the edge. "What's the goal here, Frankenstein? A floral bloodbath? A perfume line?"
He turned fully toward me, hands in his pockets. His tone cooled, but didn't lose the edge of amusement. "I told you already. I'm interested in what makes omegas…special. Toxic omegas, more so. The way your kind rewrites biology is beautiful."
"I'm not your kind of beautiful."
"You're exactly my kind," he murmured.
The silence after that felt too full, too heavy. I hated the heat that crept up my spine. Hated that he was watching me like he was studying more than my flower.
I swallowed, then smirked—shaky but defiant. "You're not going to get it from me."
"Get what?"
"The bloom."
Emiliano stepped closer. Not enough to touch, but enough for his voice to land like a secret in my ear. "Oh, I'm not in a rush, Luther. I like puzzles that bleed slowly."
His gaze lingered on me, heavy with some ancient brand of interest—dissection wrapped in desire.
I hated the way my breath caught.
I hated the way it didn't stop him.
Emiliano reached up. Not fast. Not violent. Just… deliberate. His fingers ghosted the air between us, then moved to my jaw. Not touching—just close enough to make me feel it.
"You wear defiance like perfume," he said softly, "but I wonder how it smells when it burns off."
The moment froze. Something inside me screamed to move, but my feet stayed rooted. It wasn't fear. Or maybe it was—but sharper. Confused.
He leaned in.
I didn't breathe.
His lips were inches from mine. Not possessive. Not gentle. Just inevitable.
And then—
SLAM.
The basement door cracked open with a bang. Footsteps stormed down like gunfire.
"Get away from him."
Claus.
He stood at the bottom of the stairs, panting, eyes lit with something feral. His shirt was half-untucked,breathing heavily like he'd just finished a marathon.He looked like hell. And not the kind I wanted to be rescued by.
Emiliano didn't move. Didn't blink. His hand still hovered near my face, and for a second, it looked like he might kiss me anyway—just to prove he could.
"Claus," he said with mock delight, "I was just showing off my collection."
Claus's hands curled into fists. "You said you weren't going to touch him."
"I didn't," Emiliano said evenly. "Not yet."
My stomach turned. The space between the two men was thick with unfinished violence.
Claus looked at me. Just for a second. Like he was checking to see if I was still…me.
Emiliano tilted his head, still casual. Still enjoying this.
"Well," he murmured, "this is awkward."
Claus took a step forward.
And somewhere above us—
a phone started to ring.
Emiliano's smile fell.
Once. Twice. Then silence.
And then… it rang again. Same tone. Different phone.
His jaw tightened.
Claus's glare didn't moved, but something shifted in his expression—uncertainty. Fear.
Emiliano slowly reached into his pocket, drew out the slim black phone, and checked the screen.
He answered without looking away from either of us.
"Killian," he said. "What a surprise."
A pause.
Then Emiliano's lips parted. He blinked, once.
And then—he laughed.
Cold. Sharp. Not for show.
He looked straight at me and said into the phone:
"You accept the deal?For him? Oh, Killian… you have no idea who you're asking for."