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THIRTY-SIX: Goodbye
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2025-08-18 06:09:04
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Nursing the Murderer Alpha King FOURTY-TWO: You Called Me What?
“He went crazy because of you.”The words detonate inside my chest.Then everything stops moving.The café, the chatter, the hiss of milk frothing, the scrape of metal chairs—it all fades into a low, underwater hum. The smell of burnt espresso turns sour, makes my stomach lurch. My hand’s still around the cup, but I can’t feel it. My nails drag against the porcelain. It’s the only sound that exists.I try to breathe. It doesn’t work.My throat’s dry. My heart’s somewhere near my spine. “What?” It slips out cracked, barely a sound.Rafe leans back, exhaling like the truth itself hurts to say. His fingers press against the bridge of his nose. He looks older than I remember. “You left,” he says finally, voice quiet but sharp enough to cut skin. “And he looked for you everywhere, Eris. For months. He thought you were taken. Killed.”My stomach twists. “No.”“He tore the borders apart looking for your scent.”I blink. The cup trembles in my hand. My breath fogs the rim, and I watch the con
Nursing the Murderer Alpha King FOURTY-ONE: Crazy Because Of You
The plane lands with a groan that rattles through my bones. Tires screech and the cabin lurches forward. Seatbelts click open one after another—like little detonations snapping me out of the trance I’ve been in since I saw his eyes glow.Gold.Not amber. Not a trick of the light. Gold.His hand grips the armrest between us, veins tense, knuckles pale. He doesn’t move for a full minute, doesn’t even blink. His expression is empty—too empty—and that’s worse than anger. It’s the same look he wore before he killed a man.Then, just like that, he exhales. Calm. Collected. Unbothered.He unbuckles his belt and stands.“Told you turbulence wasn’t that bad,” he says, flashing that easy grin that could make strangers fall in love.My fingers tremble as I reach for my bag, pretending to smile. “Right. Not bad at all.”His gaze flicks to my hands. He notices the shake, I know he does, but he says nothing. He just takes the bag from me like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His hand brush
Nursing the Murderer Alpha King FOURTY: That Scar
The cabin hums like it’s breathing. A steady, low vibration that crawls up my spine and won’t let go. Everyone else is asleep—rows of heads tilted, eyes shut, mouths slightly open. The air smells like recycled air and burnt coffee of the first class aisle, but all I can taste is him.Dante.He’s sitting beside me, the divider is now open, head tipped back, lashes dark against his skin. The scar near his temple catches the dim blue light, sharp enough to make my stomach twist. He looks peaceful—almost human—and it pisses me off that even like this, he’s beautiful.His hand hangs between the seats, fingers twitching against the armrest. That hand. I can still see it in flashes—blood slick between his knuckles, gripping my skin while his teeth bared and my name tore out of his mouth like a threat.That was five years ago.Now, it just lies there. Open and relaxed.My fingers twitch before I can stop them, like something in me is stupid enough to still be drawn to him. The pull is magneti
Nursing the Murderer Alpha King THIRTY-NINE: The Clock
“Who are you?”What?The air inside the cabin feels too clean, it’s far too still. It hums around me, a sterile kind of calm that only makes the panic worse. My brain can’t decide if I should run or faint or just sit down and start screaming.He’s there.Dante.Alive. Breathing. Sitting a few feet away in a damn first-class seat like a magazine model on a business trip. Shirt crisp, sleeves rolled to his elbows, expensive watch glinting under the soft cabin light. He looks exactly as the man I left to die—and not at all like him at the same time. His posture is looser and calmer, but those eyes . . . crimson under the low light, sharp and detached as they have always been. They cut straight through me before they slide away, as if I’m nothing more than cabin décor.My boarding pass trembles in my hand. My fingers are stiff, my throat feels scraped raw. I don’t even remember the movie I was watching anymore.The woman beside him—the giggly one—leans into his arm and laughs, oblivious t
Nursing the Murderer Alpha King THIRTY-EIGHT: Above the Ground
The zipper on my suitcase jams halfway through, like even it’s refusing to let me go. I yank it once, twice, and curse under my breath until it finally gives. My room looks like a bomb went off—scrubs, files, travel-sized toiletries, and one very confused five-year-old surrounded by toy cars on the rug.Daxton sits cross-legged, making crash sounds with his mouth, lost in his own world. There’s a chocolate smudge on his cheek. My heart squeezes so hard I almost forget to breathe.“Everything’s ready,” Luke calls from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dish towel. He’s ditched the white coat for a hoodie and jeans, trying way too hard to look casual. The man is a walking anxiety attack in disguise.I nod, folding another shirt I probably won’t wear. “You double-checked the fridge? The milk’s in the second shelf, not the first. Don’t mix them up again or it’ll spoil.”Luke rolls his eyes. “Got it, boss. Milk on the second shelf. Pasta in the left cabinet. Veggies in the crisper. I swear
Nursing the Murderer Alpha King THIRTY-SEVEN: Five Years
Five years later.The pen in my hand is heavier than a scalpel, which is ridiculous considering how many skulls I’ve cracked open with one. But this one signature—another approval for a clinical trial, stamped with my name—will get me quoted in journals. Will have my face plastered in magazines. Will make people whisper Dr. Eris Melrose in polished, reverent tones.The Omega reject, the rogue’s bastard, the back-alley medic who once couldn’t afford new gloves—now sits in a glass tower office with a skyline view of Manhattan.I should feel proud. Triumphant.Instead, I’m staring at my own handwriting, wondering if it’s good enough to cover bloodstains.The ghosts don’t leave. Not the smell of iron. Not the sound of bones breaking under hands too strong to be human. And not the red in his eyes—crimson, endless, hunting me across every crowd I push through.Even here, five years and an ocean away, Dante’s shadow curls around my throat. I’ve trained myself not to flinch when I catch it. T
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