Rejected by the Alpha, Claimed by his Brother
Chapter 94: _ Mine to Suffer, Mine to Kill

Chapter 94: _ Mine to Suffer, Mine to Kill

Rosario clapped her hands together. "Alright, mi amor, you wait here like a good boy while I get your breakfast."

Ah, yes. As if I had any other choice.

She straightened, smoothing down her skirt, then leaned down... too damn close—to adjust my pillow. The scent of jasmine and whatever cheap detergent she used filled my nose. My eyes, despite my best efforts, dipped again to the view her blouse so generously offered.

Dio mio.

I wanted to turn my head away. Or at least pretend to be disgusted by it because I’d rather look away than let my big Daddy monster rise with no hope of a release.

But no—my useless, disabled state meant I could do neither. So I just lay there, stiff as a corpse, with Rosario completely unaware that she was committing a crime against my sanity.

She patted my chest with the condescending fondness of a grandmother. "You wait, eh? I’ll bring you something warm."

With that, she waltzed out of the room, still humming the stupid old ranchera song, leaving me alone with my misery.

Minutes passed.

Then more minutes.

Then an eternity.

By the time Rosario returned, I was already plotting my revenge on Tomas and his family, Diego for all the miseries he put María José through last night even though I didn’t know how to go about that yet.

María José didn’t make it easy for me either, claiming she loved him and wouldn’t want to see him harmed. If his misery would agonize her, then I needed to find a more creative way to make sure he paid.

As for the brats who harassed her, I would start the punishing cycle from them. Kill them off one by one until their parents and everyone they knew, fear on their behalf, thinking they’d offend the Grim Reaper himself.

"Perdón, perdón, mi niño," she huffed, carrying a tray. "I had to warm the tortillas." Rosario’s voice cut my thoughts short.

Warm the tortillas.

Ah, sí, of course. Because the bread needed to be cozy while I was trapped in this useless body, waiting for her return like a neglected house cat.

She set the tray on the table beside me, pulled up a chair, and made a show of carefully arranging the food. Scrambled eggs, and tortillas with a side of beans. She even poured me a glass of orange juice like a devoted caregiver.

Then, at last, she turned to me with a patient expression. "Alright, mi amor. Open up."

The humiliation of being spoon-fed was nothing new, but today, after everything, it was a fresh kind of torture.

She scooped up a piece of egg, brought it to my lips, and I, hating myself, hating this entire situation—opened my mouth in the most non-existent and pathetic way that I could.

Just as I was about to suffer my second bite, the door swung open.

"¡Rosario!"

The voice was male. It was deep and too cheerful. Too damn confident.

My body, still trapped in this useless, limp state, flared with instant and irrational rage.

No. I knew that voice.

Ernesto. The bastard.

The guard strolled in like he owned the place, like he had a right to be here like I wasn’t sitting right fucking there.

He didn’t even glance my way—no, his eyes went to Rosario immediately, his mouth stretching into a sleazy grin.

I felt it then; something dark, something menacing curling inside me, crawling its way up my spine.

Mine.

She was mine.

Not in the sense that I loved her—Dio no. Also not in the way that María José was mine. María José was special. She was like one’s most prized possession. Like a family heirloom with history.

Like a mother’s love. María José was a reason a man could live for. María José was mine to protect, care for, console, comfort, and own.

Rosario on the other hand, she was a thing. An object to be used and discarded as I please. However, since I hated to share, I’d kill Ernesto one of these days.

Rosario was nothing more than a passing amusement, a distraction, something to make my miserable state slightly less unbearable.

But she was mine to enjoy, mine to toy with, mine to entertain whatever depraved thoughts I wanted when she bathed me, touched me, leaned too close with her stupidly revealing blouse.

Not his.

Never his.

Yet there Ernesto was, swaggering toward her, eyes filled with hunger as if she belonged to him.

I wanted to kill him.

Not punch. Not maim. Not humiliate.

Kill.

"Ah, mi amor," he crooned, reaching for Rosario’s hand. "You look more beautiful every day."

Rosario giggled.

Giggled. Like a blushing schoolgirl.

I wanted to snap her neck.

She swatted at him playfully with the same spoon she had just used to feed me. "Ay, Ernesto, no seas tonto. You’ll get me in trouble!"

"You like trouble," Ernesto purred, grabbing her wrist and pulling her closer.

I stopped breathing.

No, really. If I had control over my own fucking lungs, I would have held my breath.

His hand slid down her waist, fingers curling possessively around it, and she... she leaned into it.

My vision turned red.

Not figuratively. Literally.

Something inside me pressed against my ribs, roaring to be let out.

I wanted to rip his throat out.

I wanted to watch him bleed, hear him choke on it, see the light drain from his eyes as he realized—too late... who the fuck he was touching.

She was mine.

If I wasn’t stuck, I would have done it. I would have sent Rosario into a deep slumber and taken care of our little mess. But thank you, Devil.

Rosario twirled a strand of hair around her finger, feigning reluctance. "I have too much to do, Ernesto. I can’t."

"Too much to do?" Ernesto chuckled. "All I see is you feeding this poor bastard. Come on, just one drink, cariño."

Poor bastard.

I was right fucking here.

Forced to watch while this pathetic excuse of a man dared to lay his filthy hands on something that belonged to me. And called me names too?

Bloody hell, in two days, he would be repeating this to my face. If he dared not to, if his tongue failed him, then he’d pay with his life.

Rosario sighed, tilting her head like she was actually considering it. Then, finally, she glanced back at me and tsked.

"Ay, Luis, pobrecito. You’re not jealous, are you?"

Knots tightened in my stomach at that.

Jealous?

Jealous?

Oh, no. No, no, no, Rosario.

Jealousy was a petty, human emotion.

What I felt wasn’t jealousy. It was puremurderous intent.

Ernesto, the absolute imbecile, actually had the audacity to clap a hand on my shoulder, his touch disgusting on my paralyzed skin. "Don’t worry, Luisito," he chuckled. "I’ll bring her back in one piece."

I saw it, clear as day—his throat, his jugular, the pulse of life just beneath the skin.

One slice. One squeeze. One snap.

And he would never touch my things again.