He Hates Me, He Loves Me Not

There's a chill in the room that's not unlike the winter outside.

Adam didn't think it was possible for the president's office to be this quiet—until now, that is. A needle falling on the carpeted floor is louder compared to the eerie silence he is suffering in. He tries not to move, to hold his breath in, in case the rustling of fabric detonates the incendiary atmosphere.

President Lin's gaze hasn't left him since he reported his progress—or the lack thereof—fifteen minutes ago. He prays that even if the Alpha doesn't speak, then at least please stop suffocating Adam with his pheromones. His nostrils sting and it feels like his head is being crushed on all sides. No matter how mediocre of a Beta he may be, there's no reason for him to be subjected to this pheromone assault.

"Why is it still pending?" Damon asks seconds before Adam raises the white flag, the poor Beta almost brought to his feet in surrender.

"There is not enough evidence," Adam immediately says.

Five words can hardly summarize the amount of work and effort Adam has put to reach such a lackluster conclusion, but it more or less boils down to that single statement. It only takes five words yet his back hasn't stopped sweating despite the cold.

Damon stares at him again in silence, unblinking eyes poking tiny holes into Adam's courage. The atmosphere grows more oppressive, the Alpha's aura becoming darker as his pheromones become heavier.

"However," Adam says after some deliberation, spurred by fear and desperation, "I found something suspicious."

Damon neither speaks nor ceases releasing his pheromones, but the slight rise of his brows is sufficient of a signal for Adam to continue speaking.

"I wanted to investigate one of your former secretaries: Anna Hill." He comes closer to Damon's desk, handing a paper with her profile printed on it. "She transferred departments over a year ago due to health reasons but quit shortly after when she found out she was pregnant."

President Lin takes the paper, quietly looking at the face of the person who was second only to Lucy in terms of skill and work ethics. "I remember," he says, glancing at the 'Omega' written below her name. "What happened?"

"I couldn't reach her at first, so I decided to hire a private investigator to look for her whereabouts." Adam sighs then, lowering his head in preparation for his next words.

He feels no shame in requiring external help, especially when the result is way beyond his expectations. His sixth sense is always right, but it doesn't make the news any less shocking.

Not wanting to delay the inevitable, Adam says, "Turns out, she has been missing for a few months."

"What did you say?" There's a slight twitch to Damon's fingers, the only indication of his surprise.

"Her husband filed a missing person report not long after she gave birth." Adam pauses. "There hasn't been a clue since."

--

Damon feels worse as the days go by.

His withdrawal symptoms are no longer as severe as when he met with Dr. Medina. He has also stopped vomiting a few weeks ago, yet he still feels like he is being weighed down by a thousand bricks. Every step he takes is a strain on his muscles; every breath he pulls is labor on his lungs. Maybe it's a combination of juggling problems here and there, but he never feels well-rested. Even Heath's presence no longer comforts him like before—no bubble of relaxation.

Damon ignores how Uriel's concerned gaze burns a hole in his back as he makes his way to his bedroom. The old butler keeps his comments to himself, knowing not to ask or pry, but his face can't hide what he thinks of Damon's awful state. There's no need for such comments either. The Alpha knows that he lost weight; he sees the dark circles under his eyes.

Damon wants to sleep. It's all he wants to do recently. He is listless and no amount of caffeine helps. With his appetite nonexistent, there's no longer a need for him to eat. He tries, but the food is like wet paper on his tongue.

A skipped meal or two won't matter anyway, he thinks as he undresses in front of the open closet. It's not like he'll die.

He grabs for a casual sweater. Eyes going heavy with drowsiness, he doesn't notice how slow he's moving as he pulls the shirt over his head. He finishes changing the rest of his clothes in this manner—his movements languid.

Just as he's about to close the door of the antique wardrobe, he spots a discarded suit jacket in one corner. He doesn't hesitate to pick it up, mind not registering why or how the article of clothing found its way to the secluded spot. However, before he can place it back to where it belongs, he catches a whiff of something that rouses his inner alpha from its slumber.

Strawberry and warm pancakes on a lazy morning—the scent calls upon Damon like a lighthouse in the middle of a storm.

Before he knows what he's doing, he presses the suit jacket closer to his face, inhaling more of that familiar pheromones. He instantly feels better. It's as if he is being pulled from underwater. When he breaks over the surface, snippets of memories resurface in his mind one by one.

(Bright, red eyes looking at him with unabashed adoration. "I'm Kaiden. Omega. U-unemployed." A contract signed for a year. Pheromones filled with affection. "Alpha." A pair of slippers neatly arranged by the front door, waiting for him to arrive home. Quiet early mornings with a hot cup of coffee silently sitting on his desk. "Damon." Light footsteps at the crack of dawn. Small hands near the stove, holding a pot or a pan. The enticing aroma of food, freshly prepared. "Love you." A quiet whimper, stifling his arousal. A strand of loose, pink hair over a sleeping face. "I love you." A soft voice asking him how his day went. Sad, red eyes looking down when he doesn't answer. Thin, trembling shoulders. "I love you, Damon." Tears streaking down a pale face. A small smile, never complaining.)

Damon isn't sure, but for a moment, it seems like he blacked out. He hits his forehead once, twice, forcing his senses to return.

He quickly throws the jacket into a nearby hamper, ignoring how his inner alpha scratches at him to fetch it back. Making his way to the bed, he doesn't glance back, not even once.

By midnight, however, he finds himself crawling out of bed. Telling himself it means nothing, he grabs the discarded jacket. He is bringing it to his bed only so he can sleep better—his inner alpha won't stop crying otherwise.