Chapter 212: Kill Me….

My gaze drops.

To my hands. To the IV taped against my skin. To the faint bruises left behind from earlier insertions. My fingers curl into the sheets, the fabric twisting tightly between them.

My partner’s trait.

Dr. Lee’s voice cuts through the silence—gentle, but insistent. “Mr. Kael, I know this is personal. But as your doctor, I need to know.”

A pause. The kind that carries weight. “Please tell me—is your partner an Omega?”

I stay silent. The seconds stretch between us, thin and fragile as spun glass.

I hear the soft tick of the monitor beside me, the distant hum of the ventilation, the quiet rhythm of my own breathing.

She waits. Patient. Unhurried.

“It’s alright if you’re not comfortable,” she says at last. Her voice remains soft, professional—but there’s something beneath it. A warmth I haven’t noticed before.

“We can talk later.”

She begins to rise— ready to leave, ready to give me space I didn’t ask for, ready to let me retreat into the silence I’ve wrapped around myself like a shield.

“He’s a Beta.”

She stops.

The word hangs between us—unexpected, heavy.

She looks at me for a long moment. Just looks. Her expression unreadable, her eyes steady behind her glasses.

“He’s a Beta,” I repeat, lifting my gaze to hers. My voice is quiet, but steady.

“But sometimes…”

I hesitate, searching for words that don’t quite exist. “Sometimes there’s a scent. From him. Strong… like pheromones.”

Her brow furrows. She adjusts her glasses—a small, thoughtful motion. “What kind of scent?”

“Fresh red roses.” My fingers tighten in the sheets. “And he can smell mine. My pheromones.”

Her tone shifts—curious now. Clinical, but warmer. “Has he been tested again? Since this started?”

I glance down at my hands, at the IV, at the faint web of blue veins beneath my skin. “I thought the same at first,” I admit quietly. “That he might not be a Beta.”

A small pause. “But he checked. Twice.” I swallow. “Both results said the same thing.”

“Beta.”

She’s quiet for a moment, her fingers tapping lightly against the white fabric of her coat—a soft, steady rhythm, like rain against glass. “It’s rare for a Beta to have a scent. But it’s possible.”

She pauses, choosing her words carefully. “However, having a scent doesn’t make someone an Alpha. Some Betas have them. It’s just… uncommon.”

Another pause. Longer this time. “And as you know, your body is very weak right now.”

Her gaze meets mine.

“You’re still going through trait transition. Your pheromones are shifting. Your hormones are unstable. Your entire system is trying to adjust.”

A brief pause.

“It’s normal for you to react to scent—any scent. From anyone.” Her voice softens slightly. “Because right now… your body isn’t strong enough to resist it.”

She hesitates.

I see it—the slight break in her composure. The flicker in her eyes before she steadies herself again.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Kael.” Her voice lowers, quieter now. “But even after knowing your partner’s trait… my recommendation remains the same.”

A pause.

“You need Alpha pheromones.”

Another pause.

“Or, if possible…”

She stops. I wait. She meets my eyes.

“Physical intimacy with an Alpha.” Her tone is steady now—professional, unwavering. “This isn’t just a suggestion. It’s necessary for your recovery.”

“Your body is struggling to stabilize.”

“An Alpha’s pheromones would help restore that balance.”

My voice comes out sharper than I intend.

“How can you say that, Doctor?”

She looks down, her composure slipping—just enough to reveal something softer beneath.

“Mr. Kael, please understand.” Her voice is gentle, but steady. “I’m your doctor. Your health is my priority. It has to be.”

A pause.

“And in your condition…”

Another pause. Longer this time. “Your first heat cycle is approaching.” She lifts her gaze to meet mine. “It would be safer—for you to spend it with a high-rank Alpha.”

Silence settles between us.

“You need this.”

I look away. My voice turns cold. Distant. “I don’t want that kind of treatment.”

“Mr. Kael—”

“No.”

I cut her off, the word coming out faster than I expect. My breath stutters, uneven. “I can’t do this. No matter what happens. No matter what you say.”

I force myself to steady my breathing, even as my chest tightens. “I’m in a committed relationship.” My voice falters—just slightly. “I won’t do something like this.”

A pause.

“Even if it’s important.”

“Even if you say I need it.” My hands tighten in the sheets. “I still won’t agree.” I inhale slowly.

“Just give me suppressants.”

She adjusts her glasses again—a small, steadying motion. Her voice is gentle, but final. Like a door closing. “Mr. Kael, you cannot spend your first heat on suppressants. I won’t allow it.”

“Why?”

“Because it could kill you.”

I go still. The words sink into my chest—like stones dropped into still water. The impact spreads outward. Slow. Inevitable. Touching everything.

Kill me.

The words don’t feel real. But they don’t leave.

She continues, her voice soft but unwavering—each word deliberate. Measured. “Your body isn’t stable enough to handle more drugs.” A pause. “You’re already under strain—your hormones are fluctuating, your system is unstable, your heart has been under stress.”

Her gaze holds mine. “If you use suppressants now… it could cause irreversible damage.” A breath. “It could push your body past its limit.”

She hesitates. “It could…” The words falter. “It could take your life.”

Silence falls. Heavy.

“Mr. Kael…” Her voice softens—almost gentle now. “Please try to understand.” A pause. “I know you love your partner.”

“I can see it—in the way you react whenever he’s mentioned.” Another pause. “But you need to think about yourself too.”

“Even a little.” She exhales softly. “If possible… I would like to speak with him.”

“I’m sure he’ll understand.”

“I’m sure he’ll want what’s best for you.”

She stands, smoothing her coat, restoring her composure piece by piece. She picks up her file. “Try to rest.”

“We’ll talk again.”

A small pause.

“Good night, Mr. Kael.”

I don’t respond.

She walks to the door. Her hand pauses on the handle. She glances back—just once. Something unreadable flickers in her eyes. Concern. Or pity. Or something quieter.

Then she opens the door— and leaves. The door closes behind her with a soft click.

The room feels smaller now. Like a cage. Like the walls have shifted inward without warning, pressing in from every side.

The city glows beyond the glass wall—golden light spilling across the room in soft hues of amber and fading orange. Outside, the world keeps moving. Cars drift through the streets like distant sparks.

People walk, talk, live—untouched by the weight pressing down on my chest. Unaware that in this room, on this bed, someone is slowly drowning in silence.

I stare at my hands. My fists tighten in the sheets.

Heat cycle.

An Alpha.

What if Deniz finds out?

What will he think?

What if he decides we can’t stay together?

What if he looks at me—and sees a burden instead of someone he loves?

What if he asks for a breakup?

My grip tightens. The fabric twists beneath my fingers.

No.

No… I can’t let that happen.

My eyes sting. A tear slips free—slow, warm, inevitable— and falls onto my hand.

The door opens again. No knock.

Deniz steps inside, a cake box tied with a thin ribbon in one hand, a bouquet of soft pink roses in the other—the ones I love, the ones he always remembers.

A soft smile lights his face. Warm. Familiar. The kind that usually makes everything feel possible.

I look up at him.

The moment he sees my tears, the smile fades. He crosses the room quickly—too quickly. His footsteps echo against the polished floor.

He sets the flowers and cake aside without a glance and sits beside me, the mattress dipping under his weight.

His hands come to my face, gentle, careful—like I might break beneath his touch. His thumbs brush away my tears, slow and steady. “What happened?”

His voice is soft, edged with worry he can’t quite hide. “Are you okay? Why are you crying?” His hands are warm against my cold skin.

I force a smile. It feels thin. Fragile. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

He doesn’t look convinced. His eyes search my face—lingering, tracing, as if trying to find the truth hidden beneath my words.

“I don’t believe you,” he says quietly.

I try again.

“Really… nothing happened.”

A pause.

“I just…”

The words catch in my throat. “I feel lonely here.” My voice softens. “It feels like a cage. I don’t want to stay anymore.”

He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to my temple. His lips linger—warm, steady, grounding. “You’ll be discharged soon,” he murmurs.

“And I’m sorry… I shouldn’t have left you alone.”

“It’s okay,” I whisper. “I know you have work.”

His thumbs continue to move over my cheeks, slow and soothing, tracing the paths my tears left behind. “I promise,” he says quietly, each word deliberate, certain, “I won’t leave you alone again.”

Before I can answer, he pulls me into a hug—not tight, not desperate… just warm. Comfortable. The kind that feels like coming home after being lost for too long.

His arms wrap around me, and I hold him back, my face pressing into his shoulder, his scent filling my lungs.

His nose brushes my neck. His lips follow—barely there, a ghost of warmth against my skin.

“Zyren,” he whispers.

“What?”

He breathes in softly, his nose brushing my skin again. “Your scent… it’s sweeter than before.”

He presses a gentle kiss to my neck—light, fleeting— and a shiver runs through me, sudden and electric.

“Peaches,” he murmurs. “Sweet… addictive.”

I pull back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes.

“That’s because I’m an Omega now.”

His brow tightens. “Why do you sound sad?”

I look away. I can’t hold his gaze. “Are you okay with it?” I ask quietly. “With me… being an Omega?”

He’s silent for a moment. Then he smiles—soft, steady, warm enough to ache.

He leans in and kisses my cheek, lingering just a little.

“No matter what you are,” he says gently, “I will always love you.”

Another soft kiss.

“Forever.”

Before I can respond, before I can untangle the words caught in my throat, his lips meet mine.

Soft at first— a question. Then deeper— an answer.

My fingers tighten in his shirt, holding on. I close my eyes, and everything else fades—the hospital, the fear, the weight pressing down on my chest.

There’s only this. Only him. The warmth of the person I love most grounding me, holding me together.

And for a moment… the fear fades. For a moment, I let myself believe everything will be okay.

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