[BL] Transmigrated as the Villain CEO's Mermaid Secretary

The moment he opened the door to the private room, he knew something had changed. Pheromones clung to the air like an invisible fog, so thick that Neville was glad he had injected an extra dose of inhibitors. Every alpha in the room had released large amounts of their pheromones, turning the atmosphere into a soup of competing dominance.

The omegas present were already about to collapse on the floor. They kept on whimpering and trembling. Their eyes were lost in a haze of fear and lust, deeply intoxicated. One had already collapsed on the ground, and an alpha grabbed her long hair and twisted it cruelly, making the omega shudder and whine.

And yet Neville walked through it all as though it were nothing more than an annoyingly heavy perfume. Irritating and making his nose itch—but nothing more.

Sliding back into his seat beside Brennan, Neville ignored the chaos, ignoring the way Killian moved to block the exit, and Mick’s sharp gaze that locked on him. In that moment, he caught a sneer tugging at Mick’s mouth—like a man who had stumbled upon an amusing secret.

"Are you really a recessive omega?" Brennan’s voice broke the silence, low and incredulous. He leaned closer, palm settling on Neville’s shoulder with deliberate weight. "How is that even possible? This much pheromones... You should’ve been off your feet."

The question drew the attention of others nearby. Recessive omegas were supposed to be fragile, delicate—helpless in this kind of atmosphere. They should have been the first to fall.

Neville’s lips curved into a smile that never reached his eyes. "Besides having a small percentage of pheromones and a faulty vomeronasal organ, I’m no different from a beta."

"Is that so?" Brennan’s grip tightened, fingers digging into Neville’s arm.

"How boring." He reached lazily toward the table, picking up a glass with casual elegance. "Here—have a drink. It’ll help you loosen up a little."

The liquid in the glass caught Neville’s eye. It was a lighter color. Strangely, it has a reflective surface.

It was not the same drink as before.

And looking at the omegas writhing on the ground. They didn’t seem to have collapsed by pheromones alone.

"Just one drink." Brennan coaxed, raising the glass until it hovered before Neville’s lips, flashing a false smile. "For friendship."

"No, thank you," Neville refused, not moving a muscle. "I’m not thirsty."

Brennan’s eyes flickered with irritation. Across the table, Mick met his gaze, who returned a cold, impatient stare: This wasn’t going according to plan.

"Just drink, Hope," Mick said, his tone laced with warning. "It’s only a glass."

But it wasn’t only a glass, and every alpha in the room knew it. The omegas’ soft, crying sounds still echoed faintly, a reminder of what happened to those who drink it.

Neville met Mick’s eyes head-on. His answer was firm, "No."

The single syllable cracked the room’s tension like a whip.

Brennan moved in a flash, pressing the rim of the glass hard against Neville’s lips—enough to bruise. His voice dropped, rough and commanding. "Drink."

A dangerous glint flashed in Neville’s eyes for a split second before he controlled himself. He pushed Brennan’s arm away, the liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim. "No. Thank you."

Brennan’s face flushed with anger. He pressed the glass even harder against Neville’s mouth. "I said drink."

Neville shoved Brennan’s arm away with more force this time. "And I said no."

With a roar of frustration, Brennan snapped. The contents of the glass flew through the air, drenching Neville’s face and chest in a perfect arc. The liquid was warm and immediately began to soak into the fabric of his suit. It smelled wrong—chemical, sickly sweet, and something else Neville couldn’t describe.

"I told you to drink!" Brennan roared, looming over him with raw aggression.

The entire room went dead silent. Even the writhing omegas stopped making a sound. Their primal instinct was warning them that violence was about to erupt.

Neville slowly rose to his feet, liquid dripping from his hair and chin. His face was calm, almost serene, though his eyes burned with fury he refused to show.

He turned for the door.

Brennan’s hand shot out, catching Neville’s wrist in a grip that would surely leave a bruise. He yanked him back so hard that Neville stumbled on his feet. "Where the fuck do you think you’re going?!"

Neville’s shock lasted exactly one heartbeat before it morphed into something colder. He glanced at Mick, at Killian, at the dozen other men watching them with either glee or detached interest.

Not one of them had lifted a finger.

They were all in on this.

So be it.

He rose again, deliberately slow—only to be yanked back when Brennan’s grip tightened savagely, bone grinding against bone.

"A bitch should act like a bitch!" Brennan snarled, dragging him down with brute force. His voice dripped with the ugly satisfaction of dominance.

Time stretched thin.

Neville’s free hand discreetly reached and closed around a bottle on the table. Heavy. Solid. The neck slid perfectly into his grip, as if waiting for this moment.

Brennan was like a broken record, yapping about omegas knowing their place, about respect, about teaching him a lesson—

BAK!

"What the—"

Glass burst into glittering shards as the bottle slammed against Brennan’s skull. Alcohol mixed with blood, spraying across the table as the alpha staggered to one knee. He caught himself, hand pressed to the side of his head, blood leaking through his fingers.

A stunned silence fell over the room.

"What the hell?!" Mick’s voice was full of disbelief. "How could you do that to a guest?"

Neville met his eyes, dead and cold. "You call that a guest? Looks more like trash to me."

He turned toward the door, shards crunching beneath his shoes. Behind him was chaos, and Brennan’s blood-choked growl to kill him.

His hand was almost on the door when a massive wave of pure, aggressive, concentrated pheromones slammed into him. Strong enough to knock out any omega. Strong enough to even make betas vomit their guts out.

It was Killian.

Neville turned back, catching the man’s stunned expression. With a slow, taunting smirk, he said, "Your useless pheromones have no effect on me anymore. Dumbass."

Killian’s face went through several expressions—shock, confusion, then finally tightened with killing intent. "Doesn’t matter. Numbers are on our side."

As if summoned, every alpha and beta in the room began to move. Not rushing—they were too confident for that—but spreading out to cut off any escape route.

Fifteen alphas. Three betas. Against one supposedly recessive omega in a room reeking of broken glass, blood, and danger.

[Host!] Shelly shouted in his head, filled with panic. [This is bad. This is very bad!]

’Purchase a butterfly knife,’ Neville ordered without taking his eyes off the approaching threats. ’Combat grade.’

[That’s five hundred points! That—]

"Just do it."

He felt the weight in his pocket just as the first alpha lunged. Neville moved on pure instinct—dropped low, used the attacker’s momentum to send him crashing into the wall. The floor was still slippery from whatever they had thrown at him; slippery also meant harder to catch him.

Another came from the left. Neville spun; hidden chains in his outfit were thrown out and cracked across the man’s cheek. It wasn’t a killing blow, but it was enough to make him stumble back and curse.

"He’s fast for an omega," someone commented with interest.

"Doesn’t matter," another answered, flat and annoyed. "Corner him."

They moved like a unit now—coordinated, rehearsed. Neville noted that as he dodged. They must’ve done this before, probably a lot more than he estimated.

Mick threw a bottle from across the room with unerring accuracy. Neville twisted away, but not fast enough. Glass shattered against the wall beside him, shards and liquor spraying across his side. The cuts were shallow but numerous, blood beginning to seep through the tears in his suit.

He grabbed a bottle from the table and returned the favor, slamming it into the nearest alpha’s shoulder. One down, but three more were already moving in. Too many angles, too many hands were reaching for him.

Neville pulled out his knife as someone seized his arm. He flicked it open without thought and drove the blade into the nearest limb. The alpha howled and jerked back, but another immediately took his place.

"Back. Off." The blade flashed under the light, wavering but menacing.

"He’s armed!" someone barked.

"Grab him!" came the chorus.

The room erupted into chaos. Neville slashed and fought, using speed and precision, but sheer numbers were wearing him down—and they knew it.

Shelly’s voice cut in again, frantic. [Host, I can call for help!]

"It’s fine," Neville grunted, ramming an elbow in someone’s solar plexus.

But then he noticed that Brennan was on the ground—writhing in pain, but not unconscious. His body was contorted into a fetal position, making guttural noises that weren’t human. Alcohol and glass explained the cuts—but this contortion suggested something was added, making his head injury worse.

Was it the drugged drinks?

Or that something in the aroma diffuser?

That momentary distraction was all it took.

Multiple hands seized him at once, pinning him to the ground with their combined weight. Neville thrashed and struggled, the knife drawing blood wherever it could reach, but there were simply too many of them. Someone kicked the weapon from his hand, sending it spinning across the floor.

"Got you now," Mick’s voice came from above, triumphant—cruel like a man enjoying a hunt’s end. "You should’ve just drunk when you were told."

[Host! Should I buy the bomb?!] Shelly screamed in his mind.

"Do it." Neville snarled aloud, not caring who heard. "If I’m going to hell, I’m taking all of you with—"

BAM!

The door exploded.

Not open. Not kicked. Exploded.