My eyes are fixed on Zyke, a steady, unblinking stare.
Does he actually have sothing to say, or is this just another ga to waste what’s left of my shattered night?
Zyke pours a second glass of the dark red wine and slides it across the polished table towards .
"Hmm. Take it."
I stare at the glass. In my real life, I never drank. Never went to clubs. Alcohol was a luxury my ti and budget never allowed. I look from the glass back to his face.
"I’m fine, Brother. Just tell why you’re suddenly being so... polite. It feels wrong."
He takes a slow sip of his own wine, his eyes never leaving mine, a faint, knowing smile playing on his lips. "Wasn’t it you who wanted to spend ti with ? Who wanted... brotherly love?"
He savors the words, turning my own earnest plea into a taunt.
A frustrated breath escapes , my exhaustion plain on my face. "Big Brother, I’m just tired tonight. Let’s talk tomorrow." I start to rise.
"Zyren."
His voice stops . It’s not a command this ti; it’s lower, almost hesitant.
I stop, look at him. His expression has shifted, the mocking edge softened by sothing else—reluctance.
"I want to ask you sothing," he says, the words seeming to cost him.
I stare.
What could he possibly need to ask ?
Slowly, I sink back into the couch, leaning back as if bored.
"Alright. What is it?"
Zyke sets his own glass down with deliberate slowness. There’s a hesitation in him I’ve never seen before. He looks at , then away, as if the act of speaking to like this is an insult to his pride.
"I... need your help."
My eyebrows shoot up.
Help?
The word is so foreign coming from his mouth I almost think I misheard.
Zyke doesn’t ask for help; he demands compliance.
"Why are you staring at like that?"
He mutters, still not looking at .
I raise an eyebrow, a cool, analytical mask sliding into place.
"I’m just... curious," I say slowly, drawing out the words. "An S-Class Alpha needs help from a D-Class Alpha like ?"
He flinches as the barb hits its mark. His stare locks onto the wall, teeth grinding, the muscle in his jaw jumping with barely contained rage.
"I want your help... to talk to Shine. You seem... close to him."
I narrow my eyes. Shine? All pretense of casualness drops. "What’s wrong with Sister-in-Law?
Is he okay?"
Zyke finally looks down, a muscle ticking in his jaw. "He’s just... sad. Recently. He won’t tell why. He just stays quiet. He doesn’t even talk to properly.
I stare at him for a long, loaded mont.
Then a laugh rips out of —loud, harsh, empty. Not a chuckle. Not humor. Just bitter disbelief, echoing through the vast room until my eyes water.
Zyke’s head snaps up, his expression darkening with pure fury. "What the hell are you laughing at?!"
I keep laughing, shaking my head, wiping tears from the corner of my eye, the laughter subsiding into bitter shakes. "You," I gasp. "You’re an S-Class Alpha, and you can’t even make your own partner happy? What kind of S-Class are you?"
He stares at like he wants to strangle the life out of , his fists clenched on his knees.
I can feel the pressure of his pheromones spiking in the room, a silent, furious threat.
I lean forward, a sharp, victorious smirk on my lips. "So, Big Brother... now you finally agree with ?"
"Agree with what?" he snarls.
"That you’re just drunk on power. On pride. You have no idea how to make soone you claim to love actually happy."
Sothing flickers in his cold eyes—not just anger, but a sliver of doubt. A crack. The effect of my words, landing not as an insult, but as a truth he can’t imdiately refute.
I stand up, stretching languidly, the picture of casual dominance. "Don’t worry, Big Brother. Tomorrow, I’ll talk to Sister-in-Law. I’ll find out why he’s unhappy."
I let the implication hang: because you clearly can’t.
Zyke stays silent, swallowed by his own guilt and dawning confusion.
I don’t wait for a reply. I turn and walk toward the stairs, throwing a careless "Good night, Big Brother," over my shoulder.
As I climb the steps, a cold, knowing smirk touches my lips.
I already know why Shine is sad. He doesn’t want to go back to K-Country. He wants to stay here, near his parents. But he’d never dare say it to you, you overbearing, prideful fool.
Tonight, let him wonder. Let him worry. Let him lie awake in his gilded bed, turning his own worth over and over in his mind.
Tomorrow, I’ll give him the answer. And he’ll never forget that it was his D-Class brother who understood his Oga better than he ever did.
That lesson will taste like humility.
My footsteps are slow, dragging as I walk down the hall to my room. The brief, fiery distraction of dealing with Zyke has faded, and the heavy, cold sadness seeps back in, filling the space he left behind.
Maybe I should have stayed downstairs longer. At least with him, I forget...
I lift my gaze from the intricate pattern of the floor.
And I freeze.
Angel. Standing perfectly still outside my bedroom door, as if he’s been waiting. A quiet statue in the dim hallway light.
A different kind of tension jolts through —sharp concern. I quicken my steps. "Are you okay?" The question cos out too fast, too edged with a worry that belongs to my own crumbling state, not his.
He blinks, confusion softening his features. "I’m fine. Why do you ask?"
I rub my temple, the ghost of a headache from tears and tension pulsing there.
"Nothing," I say, trying to sound casual. "Just surprised to see you standing here like this."
His gaze flicks to my bedroom door, then back to , his expression carefully neutral. "I just finished cleaning your room."
I stare at him. The hour is late, the mansion silent. "Why this late?"
A faint, telltale blush dusts his cheeks.
He looks down, breaking eye contact.
A slow realization dawns, cutting through my gloom. I narrow my eyes. A knowing smile curves my lips—slow, deliberate—the first real one since... since everything. The heavy weight in my chest eases, just a little.
"Angel," I murmur, my voice dropping into a soft, teasing register. "Are you lying?"
He doesn’t look up, his shoulders tensing slightly. "I should go—" he says quickly, already turning to slip away.
My hand darts out, catching his wrist gently but firmly. He freezes, looking back at .
The soft smile on my lips grows.
He’s so transparent. The flush, the averted eyes, the hurried escape—it’s all the confirmation I need.
"You don’t even know how to lie," I murmur, my voice fond, the earlier sadness montarily forgotten in the face of his adorable, clumsy deception.
"What an innocent Oga."
He stands there, caught, his wrist warm in my hand, a beautiful, flustered mystery waiting just outside my door.
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