Vengeance in His Bed

"Get out."

Dorrent’s voice was a low, fractured growl that barely carried across the dark expanse of the mattress. He sat pressed against the headboard, his chest still slick with the cold sweat of his nightmare, his knuckles white where they gripped the heavy sheets. The phantom scent of the runway—the smell of tattered rags, damp earth, and Jannah’s suffocatingly sweet omega scent—seemed to linger in the corners of the room, refusing to dissipate. Looking at her standing by his nightstand was like watching his subconscious step out of the shadows and take physical form.

Jannah didn’t move. She stood perfectly still, her small hands resting flat against the edges of the silver tray she had just set down. The steam from the dark, infused liquid rose between them, casting a thin, twisting veil of vapor over her sharp features.

"I won’t leave," Jannah said, her voice carrying a quiet, unyielding weight that grated against his raw nerves. "Your father has mandated two hours a day for your evaluation and treatment, Alpha Grefo. Since I am being paid a fortune to be here, I must work for the money. I don’t intend to give you or your family any excuse to call me a thief."

Dorrent let out a sharp, bitter laugh, the sound hollow and sharp in the silence of the suite. He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing into lethal slits as he locked his gaze onto her pale face.

"Why are you so desperate?" he sneered, his tone dripping with a desperate, defensive venom. "Why are you clinging to this farce? You stand there with your common weeds and your kitchen-counter sludge, acting as if you possess the secrets of the gods. What makes you believe—even for a fraction of a second—that a girl from the gutters can treat an S-tier affliction that the greatest medical minds in the federation couldn’t solve with billions in funding?"

Jannah looked down at the dark ceramic jars, her expression remaining entirely unreadable. "Because I am poor, Dorrent. And every poor person wants money. In the slums, desperation is our fuel. If there is even a single percent chance that my grandfather and I can secure a life where we never have to taste the mud of 3rd Street again, I will try my absolute best to treat you. I don’t care about your pride, and I don’t care about your skepticism. I care about the survival of my bloodline."

Dorrent’s chest heaved, the logical, calculated side of his mind warring against the chaotic terror that the dream had left in its wake. He wanted her away from him. He wanted her out of his sight before the walls of his palace felt any smaller.

"Fine," he hissed, his voice vibrating with a dangerous, volatile energy. "You want to earn your blood-money? Tell me. How exactly are you planning on treating me tonight? What grand, miraculous method have you cooked up in your little pots?"

Jannah lifted her head, her dark, soul-searching eyes locking squarely onto his. The professional wall she had built around herself was flawless, devoid of the trembling panic that had consumed her in the bathroom or the pool.

"The most effective path that might actually work," Jannah began, her voice dropping into a clinical, matter-of-fact register, "is a direct topical absorption. I have prepared an infusion of Siren’s Root and concentrated Winter-sap. To bypass the S-tier neural blockage, the medicine needs to be applied to the most sensitive, high-density nerve cluster left in your reproductive system. I need to manually rub these herbs directly into your penis. If the friction and the heat can stimulate the dormant blood vessels, it might work."

The air in the room shattered.

Dorrent’s face transformed from a mask of cold arrogance into a grotesque distortion of pure, unadulterated fury. He threw the silk sheets aside, his massive, muscular frame surging forward on the bed until he was looming over her, his chest practically vibrating with a feral, murderous impulse.

"You pervert!" Dorrent roared, his voice bouncing off the vaulted ceiling like thunder. "You disgusting, shameless little witch! You think I would ever allow you to touch my penis with your filthy hands? You think I would let you degrade me, degrade my body, with your sick, manipulative games? You are out of your mind!"

Jannah didn’t back down. She didn’t even flinch at his roar. Instead, she took a single step closer to the edge of the bed, her gaze piercing through his fury, looking deeper into his eyes than anyone had dared to look in five years. The sheer intensity of his reaction looked like the blind panic of a cornered animal.

"Why do you hate me so much, Dorrent?" she asked softly, her voice cutting through his heavy breathing like a scalpel. "Is it truly only because you find me dirty? Is it only because I am from the slums and don’t carry the perfume of your upper-district elite? Or is there something else hiding beneath all this screaming?"

Dorrent froze, his breath catching in his throat. The cold sweat on his back seemed to turn to ice.

Before he could find his voice to cast her out, Jannah tilted her head, her lips parting to deliver a sequence of words that made the room spin on its axis.

"Is it because you don’t want me close?" she whispered, her eyes reflecting the dim, amber light of the lamp. "Are you terrified of me getting anywhere near your waist because you know that in case you actually get me into your bed... you won’t be able to satisfy me?"

Dorrent’s heart stopped.

The color completely drained from his handsome face, leaving him a deathly, hollow pale. The words. The exact, precise sequence of words from his nightmare. It wasn’t a dream anymore. The ghost from his subconscious was standing right in front of him, stripping him of his crown, exposing the bleeding, pathetic secret he had spent three years dodging Joanne to protect. His greatest fear hadn’t stayed buried in the dark; this girl had dragged it out into the light, using it to slice his manhood to ribbons without even drawing a weapon.

A choked, guttural sound escaped his throat. The sheer psychological weight of the moment was too much for his S-tier pride to bear.

"Get out," he whispered, the rage gone, replaced by a cold, desperate panic that made his voice shake. He pointed a trembling, rigid hand toward the double doors. "Get out... get out of my room! Out! Now!"

Jannah observed the absolute collapse of his composure for a long, silent beat. She saw the tremor in his hands, the wild, unhinged terror in his eyes, and she knew she had struck the absolute center of his soul. She had won the night.

Slowly, deliberately, she stepped back from the bed. She didn’t take the tray with her. She left the ceramic jars and the steaming cup sitting securely on the polished wood of his nightstand.

"Drink the medicine before it gets cold," Jannah said, her voice dropping into a calm, quiet command as she turned toward the exit.

She walked briskly across the plush rug, her small silhouette disappearing through the grand entryway, the doors clicking shut behind her with a soft, final thud that left Dorrent alone in the crushing darkness of his own mind.