Chapter 374: Chapter 374: The predator awaking
The first thing Christian felt was weight.
Not pain, though that came next, but the weight of his own body, heavy and uncooperative, pressed against something cold and wet. His breath came shallow and uneven, like the air itself had grown thick. He tried to move, but his arms didn’t respond. Something sticky, blood, he realized distantly, had glued his shirt to his back.
Christian’s lungs burned with every breath, and though the room was silent, he could feel it... an echo of dominance that lingered long after Benedict had gone. His skin still crawled with it, the phantom weight of the man’s pheromones clinging to him like smoke.
That scent, sharp, metallic, and sweet enough to rot, had been his cage.
He shuddered. He knew that smell too well. He’d known it long before this night, long before the bruises and the ropes and the taste of copper on his tongue.
It had been with him at the beginning.
Back when he was still Count Christian Velloran, heir to influence and order. Before the deals, before the rumors, before the scandal of an omega purchase.
He’d told himself it had been business, a transaction meant to secure standing in a world where alliances were everything. Misty Kilmer had offered her son for a price, and he had paid it. He had signed the contract, transferred the funds, watched the ink dry, and convinced himself it was politics.
That it had nothing to do with obsession. But that was a lie he told himself while obsessing over something he didn’t want.
He had never wanted Lucas. The thought of owning another person had disgusted him, an omega born royal, a child of the Emperor, someone else’s son.
And yet, when Benedict whispered, when that subtle pull of pheromones slid under his skin, the disgust dulled. The hesitation vanished. His reasoning shifted, ever so slightly, until what should have been impossible became inevitable.
He could still hear it now, Benedict’s voice, low and reverent, sliding through the haze of memory.
"You’re only ensuring balance, Christian. The Empire takes what it wants. Why shouldn’t you? He is perfect for you. You have paid for everything until now. Do you want to lose your investment to Trevor?"
That scent would follow, the scent that made his thoughts warp and curl, that rewrote guilt into justification and pride into hunger.
He’d believed it then. Believed that the fascination he felt for Lucas was his own. That the need to find him, to claim him, came from some deep, buried truth.
It hadn’t. It had been Benedict all along.
Dominant alpha pheromones, heavy and invasive, laced with something more... a frequency that made his instincts stumble, his pulse slow, and his judgment fracture. Each meeting left him a little more hollow, a little more pliant, until Benedict’s words no longer sounded like suggestions but commandments.
And he had obeyed. Even when it made no sense. Even when it destroyed him.
Christian’s eyes flickered open, blood dried at the corner of his mouth. He could see flashes of those years, the temple, the quiet halls, and the smell of incense hiding something fouler beneath. Benedict in priestly robes, his smile soft and his eyes too sharp. The sermons about control, the "prayers" that lasted too long, and the hand on his shoulder that felt more like a claim than comfort.
His gut had told him to run. Every damn time.
But he never could.
Because every time he thought to turn away, the air would shift, and that scent would flood his senses again... amber, smoke, crushed mint. He would breathe it in, get dizzy, and forget what he’d wanted to say.
He coughed, the sound weak and raw. His throat burned. His wrists throbbed where the bindings had cut too deep.
Why would he help Benedict? Why would he ever choose to stand against the Fitzgeralts?
Trevor Fitzgeralt was ruthless, yes, but rational. A man who built stability out of chaos. Christian had no loyalty to them, but he had no reason to provoke them either.
He would never be that foolish.
He would never trade the safety of his own title, Count Velloran, for some vague promise of revenge.
So why...
Days later, clarity would return. He would remember who he was. What he’d done. He would hate himself, burn through that hate with drink and silence... and then Benedict would return.
And it would start again.
Christian pressed his forehead to the floor now, the cold concrete the only thing that felt real. His mind spun, his stomach lurched, but his thoughts, his own thoughts, finally started to align.
He had never wanted Lucas. He had never wanted any of it.
That wasn’t love. That wasn’t desire. That was conditioning from a man that would destroy anything and anyone just for his perfect end.
A puppet strung by pheromones and suggestion.
He’d been made to crave what Benedict wanted him to crave, to move where he was pushed, and to hate Trevor Fitzgeralt for no reason other than the fact that Benedict willed it. The fury that had consumed him upon hearing of Lucas’s marriage hadn’t been his; it had been planted, built into him like a reflex.
He remembered that day vividly now, the moment the announcement broke. He’d shattered a teacup in his hand, blood dripping between his fingers, eyes wild, voice hoarse with rage he couldn’t explain.
"He should have been mine."
But why?
The question hit him like a wave. Why would he say that? Why would he ever think that? He didn’t even know Lucas then.
He remembered the scent again. Fainter that day, but there. Lingering.
Benedict.
He’d been there, too, the man was always calm and quiet, standing in the doorway with that gentle smile.
"You loved him," Benedict had said, his tone a soothing hum. "You just didn’t realize it until it was too late."
A lie so well-crafted it had replaced memory itself.
Christian’s hand trembled as he lifted it toward the ceiling, the light flickering once more above him. "You did this to me," he rasped. "You made me believe it."
His vision blurred again, but the rage, the real rage, kept him conscious.
He had been used as a weapon. Against Trevor. Against Lucas. Against himself.
And now, as the faint hum of engines echoed somewhere outside, the sound of Benedict’s car fading into the night, Christian finally understood what he’d been.
He, Christian Velloran, Count, the man once praised for his precision, his ambition, and his composure in every room, was nothing more than a test subject. A creature dissected by scent and suggestion, his instincts rewritten until even his desires no longer belonged to him.
The realization settled heavy in his chest, cutting deeper than the bruises across his ribs. It wasn’t anger that filled him; it was something far colder.
He laughed, low and broken, the sound echoing against the bare concrete walls. "You controlled me with scent... but you forgot something, Benedict." His voice was hoarse and raw but steady. "Even broken animals remember the hand that hurt them."
He dragged in a breath, the air thick with iron and decay, and forced his hand against the ground, pushing himself upright inch by inch. His muscles screamed. His vision blurred. But he didn’t stop.
Because now, he could smell it still... faint, fading, but there. That same scent that had haunted him for years: dominance sharpened with sweetness, decay wrapped in white and gold.
He would follow it.
He would find the man who had stolen his will, who had turned him into a puppet wearing a title... and when he did, he would make him feel what it meant to be powerless.
The predator had finally woken.