Salvar breathed.
It was shocking how easy it felt. His throat did not strain, his lungs did not struggle, and his chest did not tighten with pain. Everything worked as it should, as if nothing had ever been wrong.
His hands brushed against a soft, warm quilt as his body shifted uneasily. The sensation alone made his brows knit together.
He pressed his fingers against his temple as a headache slowly built up, his pulse throbbing faintly beneath his skin. His nerves seemed to pound in his head, unfamiliar and overwhelming.
With effort, he pushed himself up and ran a hand through his long hair.
What the hell is happening?
He looked around.
He was in a familiar room.
His room.
Not the torture chamber where he had spent the last few months.
Then how…?
How did he end up here?
Was he dreaming? Or was this some cruel illusion, the final fragments of his memory before death finally claimed him?
But it did not feel like a dream.
It felt too real.
The softness of the quilt against his skin. The steady rhythm of his pulse. The presence of his tongue.
His tongue.
Salvar froze.
He looked down at his hands, his breath catching.
Ten fingers.
He had ten fingers.
Not six.
His eyes widened in disbelief. He lifted his hand and touched his face. His skin was clean. Not dry. Not covered in dirt.
He grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled it up, glancing at his chest.
No scars.
No wounds.
He was not chained. He was not lying on damp hay. His back was not coated in dried blood.
Salvar shot out of bed.
And immediately fell.
Pain shot through him.
Real.
For a brief moment, he simply lay there.
Then he laughed.
A soft, disbelieving sound that quickly grew into something louder. Something freer.
He had never been so happy to feel pain.
Sitting on the floor with his back resting against the bed, Salvar laughed, the sound filled with relief he could not contain.
A knock came at the door.
He turned his head sharply.
Before he could respond, the door opened.
A middle aged man stepped inside.
He was in his mid forties, his appearance strikingly similar to Salvar's, though older. His hair was shorter, his eyes a calm blue, and faint lines rested at the corners of his eyes.
"Salvar?" the man called, confusion evident in his voice as he took in the sight of him sitting on the floor, smiling. "Are you still feeling unwell?"
Salvar stared at him.
For a few seconds, he could not move.
Then his eyes softened.
Tears welled up.
"Papa…"
The word came out quietly.
The man approached him with careful steps and crouched in front of him.
"What is it, my handsome boy?"
Salvar did not answer.
Instead, he lunged forward and wrapped his arms tightly around him.
The man was caught off guard. They both lost their balance and fell, but he quickly returned the embrace, holding Salvar close.
"I missed you," Salvar whispered, his voice trembling as tears slipped down his face.
"I missed you too."
The man gently patted his head, pulling him closer.
He thought Salvar was still upset with them. After all, they had forced him to leave behind the life he wanted. They had decided to pull him away from the business he was meant to inherit and sent him to the countryside with his nephew.
It had not been an easy decision.
After having their eldest son in wheelchair for rest of his life to that same business, Derek and Erek had decided they would not risk losing another. They planned to settle their debts with other organization, retire, and live peacefully as a family.
But Salvar had not understood.
He had fought against it, believing they did not trust him because he was an omega. He saw it as weakness in their eyes, even though Derek himself, an omega, had once been one of the strongest assassins in their ranks.
Unable to win the argument, Salvar had gone on a hunger strike.
It ended with a fever that left him bedridden.
Derek sighed softly, unaware that the boy in his arms was no longer the same.
The rebellious, spoiled child was gone.
In his place was someone who had seen too much, suffered too deeply.
Someone who had come back.
Salvar slowly pulled away and sat upright. Derek followed, still watching him with confusion.
"Uncle Sal!"
Both of them turned toward the voice.
A small boy stood at the doorway, held in the arms of an older man.
Milo.
He wriggled free and ran toward Salvar, jumping onto him with excitement.
"Uncle Sal, Uncle Sal! Do you know? We are going on vacation, just the two of us!"
Salvar blinked, caught off guard.
He nodded slowly.
The reason for his hesitation was simple.
In the past, he had not liked Milo.
He had seen him as a burden, something that held him back from the life he wanted. While others his age were stepping into power, making deals, building influence, he had been asked to take care of a child.
He had resented it.
But only after losing him…
Only after everything was gone…
Did he realize how precious this child truly was.
Too precious.
Too deeply rooted in his heart to ever lose again.
While Salvar was lost in his thoughts, Derek and Erek exchanged a quiet look.
Derek gave a small signal.
Erek stepped forward and cleared his throat.
Derek lifted Milo into his arms and smiled. "Why don't we let grandad and Uncle Sal plan a surprise for you?"
"A surprise?" Milo's eyes lit up.
"Yes," Derek said warmly.
Their voices faded as Derek carried Milo out of the room.
Soon, only Erek and Salvar remained.
Salvar looked at him.
His vision blurred.
His chest tightened again, but this time not from pain.
Emotion overwhelmed him.
"Salvar…"
That was all it took.
Hearing his father's voice again.
Salvar broke.
He burst into tears, sobbing openly like a child, years of pain and loss spilling out all at once.