The industrial landscape of Gwenreen City blurred into a streak of neon-smeared grey as the black armored car tore down the highway. The silence inside the vehicle was so heavy it felt pressurized, like the air inside a deep-sea diving bell.
Malcolm Ford was slumped in the back seat, his shoulders trembling with a low, vibrating rage that made the leather upholstery creak. His suit was a ruin of dust and torn silk, his knuckles were white where he gripped the armrest, and his eyes; usually a calculated, sharp amber, were dark with a frantic, cornered light.
Up front, Marcus stole a glance in the rearview mirror, then quickly looked away. He had never seen Malcolm like this. Not after the worst board meetings, not after the Black Cycle in Freenly. Because their private jet's door had been ripped off its hinges by Malcolm's own hands during his fit, they were forced to take the ten-hour drive back to Freenly in a specialized transport vehicle.
"Sir," Marcus began, his voice barely a whisper, "the medical team in the second car has the sedatives. We can pull over at a secure waypoint and..."
"I don't want the sedatives!" Malcolm roared, his voice cracking like a whip. "I don't want anything from this godforsaken city!"
Marcus flinched but didn't back down. He was the only person who could even attempt to speak to the King of Deviloy in this state. "Boss, talk to me. What happened in that office? One minute you were going in for answers, and the next you were running out like the building was on fire. What did Lukas say to you?"
Malcolm didn't reply. He turned his head to stare out the window, his chest heaving. His mind was a chaotic loop of that blue-lit room; the matte-black mask, the cold scent, and the terrifying, intimate weight of the Enigma's hand over his heart.
"He's a freak," Malcolm hissed, the words tasting like poison. "A twisted, delusional, megalomaniacal freak. He thinks because he's got some... some superior frequency in his blood, that he can treat me like a common whore."
Marcus blinked, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. "A whore? Sir, I don't understand. Did he try to extort you?"
"He asked for everything!" Malcolm turned, his face flushed with a humiliated, homophobic fury. "He stood there, behind that coward's mask, and told me the only way to get his 'filth' out of my system... the only way to save my life... was have sex with him, Marcus! A man! He looked at me—at me—and suggested that I surrender my body to his bed!"
The car swerved slightly as Marcus's foot slipped on the pedal. "He... he asked for sex? Dahmer Lukas asked to sleep with you?"
Marcus's head was spinning. This was a different level of shock. Dahmer Lukas, the Enigma, had made a direct, carnal demand of the most notoriously straight, untouchable Alpha in the hemisphere.
"The man is a deviant," Malcolm spat, leaning his head back and closing his eyes, though his eyelids were twitching. "He had these... these women. Beautiful women. He tried to bait me with them first. And when I told him I wouldn't touch his pets, he dropped the act. He told me that since it's 'his' energy, it can only return to 'him.' He told me I was bound to him until death if I didn't crawl into his bed. He's a sick, predatory freak who thinks he can use a medical emergency to satisfy his 'Enigma' perversions."
Marcus felt a strange, cold pit of pity opening in his stomach. He knew how Malcolm felt about his identity. To Malcolm, being an Alpha was about absolute dominance and a very specific, rigid masculinity. To have a man—a masked, powerful stranger—tell him that he must submit to a sexual act to survive was the ultimate violation of Malcolm's soul.
"I... I'm so sorry, sir," Marcus whispered. "That's... it's unthinkable. He must have known your history. He must have known you don't do men. For him to suggest such a thing. It was an insult."
"It was a death sentence," Malcolm muttered.
"But sir," Marcus said, trying to find a silver lining amidst the wreckage, "if what he says is true—if you really have Enigma energy in you now—you should at least be glad for the power. From what I know, Enigmas are very powerful. If a part of that is in you... you might be the most powerful Alpha to ever walk the earth."
Malcolm's eyes snapped open, glowing with a dark, dangerous gold. He lunged forward, grabbing the back of Marcus's seat. "You think I want this? You think I want a 'Superior' ghost haunting my marrow? It's not a gift, Marcus! It's a parasite! Every time I think of him, my blood burns! It's dangerous! It's a systemic fever that's going to cook my brain!"
He let go of the seat, falling back into the upholstery, his breathing shallow and panicked. "I have to get it out."
Marcus nodded frantically, "We'll find someone, sir. The moment we get back to Freenly. I'll vet the highest-tier Betas. I'll find a woman so beautiful, so compatible, that she'll drain every drop of that silver essence from you. We'll purge him from your system the traditional way."
Malcolm didn't respond. He leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the window.
"Just... get me home," Malcolm whispered. "I need to sleep. I need to wake up and find out this was all a nightmare."
"I'll handle everything, sir," Marcus promised. "Try to get some rest. It's a long drive."
Malcolm closed his eyes, his body finally sagging with the weight of total exhaustion. Within minutes, the billionaire fell into a shallow, fitful sleep.
But even in sleep, there was no escape. He dreamt of a "boss" with a black mask, and in the dream, the two figures merged into one, their voices whispering in perfect unison:
"You're already mine, Malcom."