9. Not This Time

9. Not This Time

Kloff's visits grew sparser than ever. The monotonous days drifted by. Since chess had been forbidden, Aeroc threw himself into gardening instead. That too would probably provoke Kloff's anger if he saw, but without something to occupy his hands, the hours were unbearable.

Each morning he swallowed painkillers and got to his feet, sifting through half-remembered passages from the gardening manuals he had once read. He transplanted bulbs from the wildflowers that grew thickly nearby and collected seeds. He pruned branches; sometimes he cut an armful of flowers, arranged them in a bucket, and decorated the cottage. The daffodils and tulips scattered around the grounds were bulbs his mother had planted long ago.

He could barely remember her face now, but his mother's passion had been horticulture — and she had possessed near-professional skill. The estate's celebrated rose garden had originally been unremarkable; it was she who had transformed it into something breathtaking. She had sourced every rare variety of rose and arranged them with an artist's eye, and the garden was most beautiful in early summer. That was why his father had always gathered people for the tea party in early summer. Aristocratic duty played a part, but the desire to show off his wife's rose garden was surely not absent.

Someday, in that early summer when thousands of roses burst into color, he wanted to walk through the garden once more. It was the only trace of his mother he had left.

One day, while the quiet routine continued, a child's voice rang out. Aeroc had been transplanting daffodils; he raised his head, and beyond the boxwood came the patter of small footsteps. A high-pitched giggle. He straightened and fixed his gaze on the small creature from which the sounds seemed to emanate. A moment later, a child appeared around the bend of the boxwood path that led to the cottage.

Four or five years old, perhaps. The child's golden hair caught the sunlight and blazed. The white face was as lovely as a craftsman's porcelain doll. Above all, the eyes — clearer and bluer than the sky — were utterly captivating. The child spotted Aeroc, froze, stared with wide eyes — then stood rooted to the spot, gazing.

No words were needed. He knew at a glance.

This was the firstborn. The omega boy Aeroc had carried.

His heart began to pound so violently it was audible. He felt he should say something, but could not find a single word. He went rigid — then, helplessly, smiled again. The child, as if answering, smiled back. He had seen the most beautiful flower in the world bloom.

If Kloff found out, this time he might truly be killed. Even so, Aeroc could not keep himself from approaching the child and reaching out. Raised with evident love, the boy was healthy and brimming with confidence, and when Aeroc grasped his small shoulders with trembling hands, the child showed no sign of fear. Aeroc was so flustered that he forgot he was still holding a yellow daffodil. The child reached out with a tiny hand and clasped the stem.

"Wh— what's your name?"

His voice shook beyond control as he surrendered the flower. The child grinned as though this were the most amusing thing in the world. Those cherry-red lips parted, and just as he was about to answer — from the other side of the garden, an urgent male voice called: "Rapiel!"

"Papa!"

The child — Rapiel — darted back at once. Around the dense trees appeared Kloff, running with the desperate haste of a parent who has lost a child. He scooped the small body into his arms. The worry on his face was something Aeroc had never seen before. His hands ran over tiny hands and legs, checking for harm; then he exhaled a deep breath of relief and pressed a kiss to the small forehead. His gaze turned stern.

"What were you doing here?"

Even the scolding did not cow the child.

"I met someone. Look what I got."

Rapiel pointed brightly at Aeroc, then held up the daffodil. Aeroc stared, unable to stop staring. This was the first time he had seen the child up close, and he wanted to commit every detail to memory. But the child's other parent did not share the sentiment. As Kloff turned away, cradling the golden-haired boy against his chest, Aeroc called after him.

"Wait — Kloff?"

"We'll talk later."

The familiar frost. But something in his eyes was different. The sneers and disgust of recent weeks had given way to a glare of raw fury. Aeroc could not find another word. Kloff turned his body to shield the child's line of sight and walked away quickly. Aeroc hurried as far as the boundary and craned to catch one last glimpse of the golden curls. The child, carried in his father's arms, looked back and waved. Heart bursting, Aeroc waved in return.

Rapiel.

In tradition, an omega's first child takes the mother's name. It was a name that suited the lovely omega boy beautifully.

Late that night, Kloff came. Aeroc, who had been waiting and doing nothing else, sprang from his seat the instant the tall man entered the cottage and rushed to him. With something like hope, he began: "This afternoon — the child—"

He was so nervous, so breathless, he could not even look Kloff in the face.

"Rapiel, you said? He was so beautiful."

He wanted to know anything at all. There was no need to justify why. What could be more natural than an Aeroc who was curious? He was not asking to meet the child again. He only hoped Kloff might show a small mercy — tell him some trivial thing about Rapiel. But when Aeroc raised his head, eyes bright with anticipation, what came back was fury on the verge of detonation.

"Are you finished?"

The voice was calm in inverse proportion to the rage. Kloff seized the bewildered Aeroc by the collar and flung him to the floor. The light body struck hard and tumbled. Before he could orient himself or get to his feet, the blow came.

Crack.

One hand cradling his throbbing cheek, Aeroc turned his head back and looked up.

Kloff tossed his unfastened cufflinks onto the table. The small metallic clatter as they rolled across the surface paralyzed Aeroc with terror. Sleeves rolling up, the man advanced; his shadow spread slowly over Aeroc's body. Aeroc closed his eyes.

He did not know how long the beating lasted. It was far worse than the time he had torn the clothes. Curled instinctively into a fetal position, Aeroc spat mouthfuls of blood whenever Kloff paused to catch his breath. His back and ribs — something was wrong there — screamed with agony at the mere act of breathing. The large hand that had struck his cheeks over and over had swollen them so badly they burned as though on fire. Onto that heat, cool drops fell. He managed to shift eyes too heavy to open.

Ah.

More unbearable than the pain were the clear tears falling from Kloff's fury-creased eyes. His own fists were mottled red and blue with bruises. In a voice choked with anguish, he screamed:

"Don't you ever — don't you ever again — lay your filthy hands on my Rapiel! I will burn you alive!"

It sounded like he meant it. Aeroc could not speak; he only nodded. Eventually Kloff, spent, staggered to his feet. To the very last, bitter tears ran from his eyes. Aeroc was proof of something a person could not possess.

Left alone, Aeroc managed, barely, to lose consciousness. Down his swollen cheeks — from a wound that could not heal — fragments of a soul that had once been so very pure slid and fell.

The man who had wept holding his murdered wife's body — the depth and depth of hatred in those eyes — visited again and again to beat Aeroc. The encounter with the child seemed to have torn his wounds wide open. When he tired of hitting, sometimes he had sex.

It could scarcely be called sex — far rougher and more painful than before — but by the end, Aeroc could wring a thin thread of pleasure from it. Then the heat came, and he conceived. The beatings finally subsided. The relief of no longer being struck was real. When Aeroc told him about the pregnancy, Kloff could not raise his hand again; his two fists only trembled. Aeroc feared he might at least slap his cheek, but he did not.

This pregnancy was brutally difficult. Aeroc could barely keep food down, and even without being struck, the pain at times was unbearable enough to send him reaching for the painkillers. He narrowly survived several threatened miscarriages. The child, when it finally came to term, was a very small omega boy.

In two years since returning to the cottage, he had borne two children. Aeroc now had four in total, and Kloff had not told him a single name. The only name he knew served as a ceaseless reminder of his sin.

Aeroc curled around his aching body and moaned. His weakened frame, battered by pregnancy after pregnancy, was deteriorating rapidly. Without painkillers, he could not endure a single moment. He managed to rise, swallowed the vegetable porridge he now made competently and a lump of meat left over from the pregnancy, but brought it all back up. He could not digest it. A thin, persistent bleed continued, and fevers came and went.

Every night, lowering his body onto the creaking bed felt like lying down in a crude coffin. The thought of closing his eyes and never opening them again crossed his mind. Because it hurt so much. But even that was not simple. In the pitch dark — impossible to tell dream from waking — every so often the man appeared, looking down at him, and the desire to see him just one more time dragged Aeroc back to life every time.

If you'd smile at me, just once. Then I'd leave, so your grief wouldn't go on. Yes. You're right — I'm a blue-blooded devil. I should simply let go, but here I am, clinging to what was never permitted, grasping with greed. Heedless of the agony it causes him.

He could no longer track the passage of time. How long had he been unconscious?

Today the bed was remarkably soft. And the pain was gone. Strange. The air should have been biting cold, yet something warm enveloped him completely.

What—

He opened his eyes and saw not the dingy cottage wall but someone's chest. He blinked until the blur resolved. A familiar nape. Kloff.

His quiet heart began to race. Why was the man here, sleeping beside him? Had something happened again? Or was he, as before, dragging a dying body back from the edge?

None of it mattered. It was simply, overwhelmingly good. To be held like this, even briefly — he wanted time to stop.

Afraid the slightest sound might wake him and send him away, Aeroc held his breath and drew in the scent. The dizziness was more potent than any painkiller. He had become fully omega now. Or rather — because he was omega, he had been able to bear those children. Just breathing the alpha's scent erased every pain of body and mind and brought only peace. However forbidden the desire, his body had long since recognized this man as its alpha.

How did it come to this? What was it about Kloff that I wanted so badly? He was nothing but a provincial gentry nobody. A small laugh. If he had known, he would never have done what he did. But wondering now was pointless.

Carefully, Aeroc pressed his forehead to Kloff's chest.

Thump. Thump.

The strong heartbeat felt very close. He wanted to die like this — to dissolve and vanish. But that was impossible. Soon Kloff would open his eyes and aim that contemptuous sneer at him. See? I told you so.

"What are you smiling about?"

"I don't know."

"Lunatic."

Kloff tossed the word out carelessly and pushed Aeroc away. The warm body that had been pressed to his peeled off, and the chill rushed in at once. Aeroc curled tight, trying to hold on to the heat a little longer. Meanwhile Kloff sat up on the edge of the bed. Whatever had led to this arrangement clearly displeased him; he muttered a curse and scrubbed his face irritably.

Lying still, watching him, Aeroc noticed he was hard. A morning reflex, obviously — he was a young alpha in his prime. Today, oddly, even Kloff's contempt felt blunted at the edges. Still half-asleep, perhaps. Feeling his heart hammer, Aeroc blurted out before he could stop himself:

"Do you want to have sex?"

Kloff whipped his head around and glared.

The alpha's scent had gone to his head and the words had slipped past every filter. He remembered the last time he'd asked something like this — the result had been degenerate noble and worse. Lunatic would be the mildest option. He braced for whatever insult was coming — but against all expectation, Kloff said nothing. Instead, mouth twisted in a dark smile, he climbed back onto the bed.

For the first time, Aeroc understood what people meant when they said sex could be sweet. It happened only once, but he felt as though he were dissolving like candy. If it had been a heat, twins might have resulted. He also learned that sweetness could be poison.

"You enjoy this that much, do you, devil."

"Ah... hh... Klo... mmh."

"Beaten and despised, and still no pride — a filthy whore. Who would believe you were ever a noble?"

He whispered the contempt in a sweet voice. Knowing the depth of hatred the man carried, hearing the abuse laid bare over and over was still excruciating. Whatever remained of his shattered soul still had nerve endings — it hurt immensely. As though his chest were being torn from his living body.

Let the nerves die faster. Let me forget reality and drown in false happiness before the end comes.

After that, Kloff appeared quite often. The violence and fury of before had vanished — every time, it was devastatingly sweet. With each repetition, the dread grew. A few more times, and he might begin to believe this was real. But the discipline beaten into him over a lifetime — and the kind, cruel avenger — would not permit the madness to take hold.

Before the dreamlike ecstasy had cooled, Kloff — cock still inside the softly panting omega — leaned to his ear and whispered tenderly:

"You're trying so hard. If you're human, then act like one. Cry. Beg my forgiveness."

Every time, Aeroc tried his best. He twisted his face, forced his sealed lips apart, tried to beg — but it was never easy. The tears would not come. If they could have, Aeroc would have wept enough to melt his own body. Kloff stroked the grimacing face — cheeks faintly pink with fever — and smiled.

"Disgusting devil."

Left alone, Aeroc wanted to cry. Truly. Why wouldn't the tears come? Eventually he believed that if he could only cry, Kloff would forgive everything. That kneeling and weeping and begging would fix it all.

He was being driven to the edge. He realized that gentle sex hurt more than the violent kind — and still he could not let it show. Kloff was cruel. The revulsion on his face as he moved inside him with aching softness made the pleasure wretched, unbearable. Every side was a sheer cliff, and Aeroc was balanced on the rim. One step more and he would plunge into a hell with no bottom. Through the rocking — rough at moments, devastatingly tender — Aeroc clutched the coat-hem of the man who kept pushing him away.

The heat came. For two days that felt like dying, Kloff held him with the care of a devoted lover. When the blaze that started at his toes climbed to his heart, Aeroc came. Along his trembling lashes, a salt-laced fluid ran. If only it had been tears. Kloff exhaled a weary sigh and pulled away. He slid from the bed, reached for the clothes he had taken off, and spoke as he dressed.

"If a child comes of this, have it. And this is the last time."

"Why?"

"It's enough now."

The world collapsed. He was lying on a solid bed, yet the sensation of endless falling churned his insides. He was going to discard him. This time, truly, he would be cast away. He wanted to beg forgiveness, to plead just to be kept nearby — but he had no way to beg.

It was the first time he had ever prayed not to be pregnant. But a body that responded faithfully to its alpha conceived dutifully, even in a state too broken to survive without medication. When the first wave of nausea hit, Aeroc sat in blank devastation.

As the belly swelled, Kloff's visits were brief — in and out. Aeroc, unable to hold him, stood at the door with a crumbling expression and watched the retreating figure. Time was running out. He wanted to see him even a little more, but his body was in too much pain to walk properly. He could not follow more than a few steps before sinking to the ground, clutching his swollen belly.

The time he had called happiness was vanishing like mist, and the lie of contentment shattered under the weight of pain. It hurt. It hurt so much he could not bear it. He reached for the painkiller bottle and knocked it over. White pills rolled across the floor, and he scooped them up — like the raisins of that long-ago bread — and swallowed them, sobbing. Even then, no tears came.

The heavy dose made his head spin. How could he escape this place of nothing but pain? Through the night, moaning, twisting in agony, he remembered what Kloff had whispered so tenderly. Gripping a belly that looked enormous on his wasted frame, Aeroc dragged himself upright on trembling legs.

There had never been anyone to stop him. Kloff had merely kept him alive; he had not chained him here. As he had said long ago — the door was not locked. Whenever he wished, Aeroc could leave the cottage.

In the deep hours before dawn, Aeroc left the estate for the first time of his own free will.