Chapter 127: I need your blood
Derek’s text arrived around midnight, just as the estate began to settle into a deep, oppressive silence.
[Magnus is in the small parlor. Asked for coffee.]
I zipped up the dark tactical suit, throwing my maid’s uniform back over top and adjusting the apron to conceal the tight gear underneath. I hopped lightly on the balls of my feet, listening intently. Silence. No jingle of buckles, no rustle of heavy fabric.
My suitcase had already been wiped down—every stray fingerprint erased as thoroughly as possible. While it was unlikely my biometric data existed in the Upper District’s central database, there was always a lingering chance it might end up there one day, linking me back to this night. I pray it never does.
A desperate, violent tremor ran through me—the terrifying dread of being caught, the agonizing fear that the entire plan would crumble. But backing down wasn’t an option. I wasn’t doing this for myself. Only for Matthias. Always for him.
I slipped into the kitchen. Derek had already changed into a black long-sleeve top and matching pants. Resting on the center island was a silver serving tray holding a porcelain cup of steaming coffee and a small plate with a slice of fresh apple pie.
I froze for a fraction of a second. That scent was far too familiar. I used to bake that exact pie for him back then. He had always eaten every single slice. And later, during the trial... he had looked so genuinely shattered when the prosecutors claimed I had laced his food with tranquilizers. Yet here he was, still ordering it late at night. It made no sense.
No. Focus. I need to keep my head in the game.
"What about the guards?" I asked, lifting the heavy silver tray into my hands and turning back toward Derek. "Won’t they notice you wheeling my bike right up to the side exit?"
He looked at me like I was a clueless child. Leaning forward, he pulled a small, dark vial from his pants pocket and flashed it.
"Jane. I’m not an idiot," he muttered. "They’re already out like lights. I just slipped a tiny bit of sedative into their dinner... Don’t gawk at me like that! I take the same stuff myself because I snore like a beast and keep waking up, and it works wonders. Good stuff—totally safe. They’ll sleep for an hour and a half at most, then bounce right back."
Frowning, I nodded. If he insisted it wouldn’t harm anyone, fine.
I moved down the corridor, the silver tray trembling slightly in my grip—my hands simply refused to obey. Reaching the heavy doors of the small parlor, I knocked a few times softly.
Inhale. Exhale. I stepped inside.
The first thing that hit me was his scent.
Sharp, laced with rich tobacco and a dangerous, underlying sweetness. It slammed into my senses so hard my knees buckled on the threshold. But I forced myself forward; if I stopped now, I would never move again.
Magnus sat before the roaring fireplace, staring into the flames. His silhouette looked so relaxed, so utterly serene, that for one fleeting, illusory second, it felt as though the last five years had never happened. No trial. No prison cell. No poison. Nothing.
Then his shoulders tensed, shattering the illusion into dust. He felt it. He didn’t understand what he was sensing, but his wolf instincts were screaming.
"I didn’t expect you to come near me," he said, his back still turned. "I asked Derek to bring my coffee."
I set the tray down on the small table beside his chair, the porcelain cup clinking softly against the silver.
"Forgive me for being an eyesore," I murmured softly. "I was in the kitchen when the order came in, and he asked me to bring it up..."
Magnus reached out, picked up the cup, and took a slow sip.
And while his eyes were still fixed on the fire, while that split second of silence stretched out, I slipped the canister from my apron pocket and pressed the button, spraying the aerosol gas directly into his face.
He hadn’t expected it. He jerked forward, hurling the coffee cup blindly to the side—oddly, avoiding throwing it at me. The sound of shattering porcelain echoed through the room. He strained to rise, but his muscles immediately betrayed him, his body collapsing heavily back into the leather chair.
"What the hell are you doing?" he growled. But his voice was already thick, heavy, the words slurring together.
An Alpha-grade tranquilizer—a heavy-duty self-defense chemical engineered by the rogues in the Lower District. It acted instantaneously, paralyzing every muscle in the body and suppressing his shifting locus. He could not bring his wolf forward either.
"I apologize again," I whispered, my voice trembling. "But I need your blood."
Pulling out a pair of shears and heavy restraints, I moved quickly before my hands could betray me again, binding his wrists securely to the thick wooden armrests of the chair. He didn’t fight back—he couldn’t. He only stared up at me, his eyes turning almost pitch-black with a dense, oppressive fury that hit harder than any physical blow. It felt as though he could lock me in place through sheer willpower alone, even while his body refused to move.
His overpowering scent was making everything so much harder. It made my fingers shake violently and sent a searing heat burning through my chest, tearing my consciousness apart. My heart recognized him as my Alpha—and I was actually horrified that I was hurting him.
"What are you doing?"
His voice was calm. Uncannily calm for a man who had just been paralyzed and chained to a chair. The drug had cut his motor control, but his mind remained razor-sharp. That cold, unnatural composure terrified me more than a roaring rage ever could. It was utterly wrong. Five years ago, his sheer Alpha aura alone would have crushed anyone who dared cross him.
"I need your blood," I repeated, forcing the words past my tight throat. "I won’t hurt you. I just need a sample."