Rejected by the Alpha, Claimed by his Brother
Chapter 84: _ Way To Don Diego’s

Chapter 84: _ Way To Don Diego’s

My mind immediately spiraled into the worst-case scenario. Somehow, María José had told someone. Word had spread. Now the entire household knew what I had done, and I was officially a pervert, a blood-drinking, mate-biting lunatic...

"Oh, for fuck’s sake," Hugo groaned. "They’re just blushing because you’re hot. Calm down."

I scratched my nape in realization.

...Oh.

I shot a glance at a passing maid, who immediately ducked her head as a shy smile crept onto her face.

Right.

They didn’t know.

They were just being weird.

Still, the guilt eating at my insides didn’t release me.

I kept moving, ignoring the looks, ignoring the way my own thoughts screamed at me.

By the time I reached the dining room, I was already exhausted. Not physically... emotionally. To say I’d have to endure loads of emotional damage for one breakfast added to my paranoia.

As always, the scene was picture-perfect. My father sat at the head of the table, dressed in his usual spotless suit, flipping through a newspaper. My mother sat beside him, sipping her coffee elegantly like she wasn’t just father’s doll.

And then there was Álvaro, cool and composed as ever, spreading butter on his toast like he didn’t have a single worry in the world.

Lucky bastard.

I stood at the entrance for a little longer than necessary, debating the pros and cons of turning around and never coming back.

Unfortunately, my mother caught sight of me first.

"Ah, there you are," she said brightly. "Come, sit."

My father almost didn’t spare me a glance.

I muttered a forced, "Buongiorno," and slid into my seat.

I didn’t give a damn if he returned my greeting or not.

Breakfast was already served; eggs, fresh bread, fruit, the usual lavish spread that I had little appetite for.

I picked up a piece of toast, tearing it apart with unnecessary aggression.

My father finally spoke.

"Don’t start any trouble today."

A muscle in my jaw tightened. "I don’t go looking for trouble."

He turned a page of his newspaper. "No. It just follows you everywhere."

Álvaro laughed. Idiot.

I shot him a glare, but he only smirked, completely unbothered.

My mother sighed, already sensing the violence brewing. "Let’s not start the morning with arguments, please." She turned to me, a knowing glint in her eyes. "You look nice, Axel."

My response was a listless shrug. Right now, I was just overjoyed to know that my secret was still safe. For how long, I didn’t know.

Breakfast dragged on like a torturous death. Every bite of food tasted like nothing in my mouth. It was a miracle I didn’t snap the handle off my cup from how tightly I was gripping it while sipping coffee.

The only thing that kept me from flipping the damn table over was the knowledge that soon, this would be over. Soon, we’d leave for Don Diego’s estate.

And that was an entirely new nightmare.

María José.

Would she look at me differently? Had she noticed the bite? Dios mío, had it healed yet? If not, how the hell was I supposed to explain it?

Oh, sorry, I lost control and sank my teeth into your neck like a rabid dog, but don’t worry, it wasn’t personal?

I didn’t know what was worse—the possibility of her remembering everything and hating me for it or her brushing it off like it meant nothing.

Hugo was unusually quiet now, which was suspicious in itself. I could feel him lurking at the back of my mind, watching, waiting.

Coward.

I clenched my jaw as Álvaro chuckled beside me, still smug over my father’s little jab earlier. The bastard had been buttering his toast like he was royalty, basking in his favorite activity—watching me suffer.

My father finally folded his newspaper with a decisive snap. "We’re leaving," he announced, rising from his chair with the kind of effortless authority only he could pull off. "Finish up and get ready."

Álvaro, of course, was already done. He wiped his mouth with a napkin, adjusted his cufflinks like the pompous bastard he was, and shot me a look that said try not to embarrass us, idiota.

I wanted to punch him in the throat.

With a sigh, I shoved back my chair and followed them out.

*****

The limousine was already waiting outside, gleaming under the morning sun like a piece of evidence of my father’s obsession with excess. It was an obnoxious thing—long, and shiny to the point that I could see my own miserable reflection in its surface.

I hated it.

Álvaro, on the other hand, looked like he belonged in it. He slid inside in style, crossing one leg over the other.

My father followed, settling in with dignity like a king, as if the world outside was beneath him. After him, went mother.

And then there was me.

I climbed in reluctantly. As the limousine pulled away from the estate, I let out a slow breath and turned to look outside.

The pack was already awake and bustling, people pausing in their daily routines to watch as we passed. Children stopped mid-play, their wide eyes lighting up with awe.

Shop owners straightened their displays, standing a little taller as if my father himself would judge their wares. Warriors and patrol guards inclined their heads in deference.

Everywhere we went, eyes followed us with admiration and fear.

Álvaro basked in it. He stretched out lazily, letting the sunlight highlight his features as he smirked at the attention.

My father simply accepted it as his due. One could see the monarch surveying his land in him.

I, on the other hand, wanted to throw up.

The whole performance—the reverence, the spectacle, the fake loyalty—it made my skin crawl.

Hugo chuckled. "You’re so dramatic."

"Shut up."

"What? Can’t handle being the prince of the pack?"

This isn’t admiration, it’s fear. I watched as a woman nudged her son into a bow, her hands almost trembling.

"Look at them. They don’t love us, Hugo. They fear us."

Hugo didn’t respond to that.

I turned away, focusing on the tinted window instead, watching the blur of buildings and trees pass.

But my mind wasn’t on the scenery.

It was on María José.

The nerves clawed at me, tightening their grip the closer we got to Don Diego’s estate.

Would she be there when we arrived? Would she meet my eyes? Would she remember?

Would she hate me?

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