Vengeance in His Bed

The iron gates of the estate retreated, humming with the sound of high-end hydraulics as the luxury transport glided onto a driveway paved with crushed white quartz. Jannah stared out the window, her breath hitching. The estate was a sprawling monolith of glass and architectural concrete, rising out of the manicured landscape like a fortress of modern power. It was a world away from the sagging timber and rusted corrugated iron of 3rd Street.

When the car purred to a halt under a massive cantilevered portico, a woman in a crisp, slate-gray uniform was already waiting.

"Avana," Guron said as he stepped out, his voice regaining its effortless authority. The maid bowed her head deeply. "This is Jannah Nenth. She is my son’s personal physician. Take her to the East Wing. She is to be settled in the suite immediately adjacent to Dorrent’s."

Dorrent, who had been stalking toward the entrance like a caged predator finally released, whirled around. His face contorted in a mask of pure, unadulterated outrage.

"The room next to mine?" Dorrent roared, his voice echoing off the stone pillars. "Father, this estate has forty-two bedrooms. There is a guest wing three hundred yards from my quarters. Why in the goddess’s name would you put this... this girl... in the room right next to my private sanctuary?"

Guron didn’t even blink. He adjusted his cufflinks, his eyes cold and practical. "Because she is your physician, Dorrent. Not a guest. Your condition is unpredictable. If you have an episode, if your vitals spike, or if a treatment needs to be administered in the dead of night, I want her a call away. I will not have her sprinting across the grounds while you are in distress."

"I am not in distress!" Dorrent hissed, his pheromones flaring in a jagged, bitter wave of frost. "I am perfectly capable of walking three hundred yards if I need a damn herbal tea."

"The decision is final," Guron replied, his voice dropping into a register of steel. He stepped closer to his son, his gaze narrowing. "Unless, of course, you would prefer I change my mind and have her share your actual suite? It would certainly make the monitoring process more efficient."

The silence that followed was absolute. Dorrent’s jaw clenched so hard the muscles in his neck stood out like cords. He looked at Jannah—still standing by the car in her dirty boots and ragged dress—with a look of such concentrated loathing it should have set her on fire.

"Fine," Dorrent spat, the word tasting like poison. "But if I catch her lurking near my door without cause, I’ll throw her off the balcony myself."

He turned and disappeared into the house, the heavy front doors sliding shut behind him with a final, echoing thud.

Avana led Jannah through corridors that felt more like a museum than a home. The floors were polished marble, the walls adorned with holographic art that shifted as they walked past. When they finally reached the East Wing, Avana opened a set of double doors to a suite that was larger than Jannah’s entire apartment building back in the slums.

There was a king-sized bed draped in charcoal silk, a private lounge with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a private garden, and a bathroom filled with scented oils and a tub carved from a single block of emerald stone.

"I will leave you to freshen up, Miss Nenth," Avana said softly, bowing before retreating.

Jannah stood in the center of the room, her satchel feeling heavy and out of place against the luxury. She felt like a parasite in the belly of a whale. She went to the window, watching the sun begin to dip below the skyline of the upper district. She was here.

A soft knock at the door startled her.

"Come in," she whispered.

Guron Grefo stepped inside. He had shed his suit jacket, but he still radiated the terrifying aura. He walked toward the lounge area, gesturing for Jannah to sit. She remained standing, her fingers nervously picking at the frayed hem of her sleeve.

"You’ve settled in, I hope," Guron said, though it wasn’t really a question. He leaned against a desk, watching her with a clinical intensity. "We need to speak about the specifics. I’ve paid you a king’s ransom, Jannah. I expect results that match the price."

Jannah swallowed, her throat dry. "You’ve offered more money than I thought existed in the world, Alpha Grefo. I assume the ailment is... significant. A chronic heart condition? A degenerative neurological disorder from the black-cycle ruts?"

Guron sighed, a sound that carried a rare trace of genuine frustration. He looked toward the wall shared with Dorrent’s room, his voice dropping to a low, guarded murmur.

"My son is a king of industry. He is an S-tier alpha of the highest caliber. But for the last five years, he has been a useless man. His body has failed him in the one way an alpha cannot afford to fail."

Guron looked directly into Jannah’s eyes, his expression grim.

"Dorrent suffers from absolute impotence. He has been unable to achieve an erection, let alone complete a knot, since his twenty-fourth year. The most advanced synthetic drugs, the most powerful omega pheromones, the most skilled sexual therapists in the federation... nothing has worked. His blood is cold."

Jannah felt the blood drain from her face. The room seemed to tilt on its axis. She had spent her life treating fevers, healing broken bones with poultices, and brewing teas for the elderly to help them sleep. She was an herbalist of the earth, not a specialist in the complex, ego-driven biological failures of the elite.

She thought of Dorrent’s arrogant, handsome face. She thought of the way he had looked at her with such disgust in the car. The idea of her—a nineteen-year-old virgin from the slums—trying to fix the sexual dysfunction of the most powerful man in the city was absurd. It was madness.

"Impotence?" Jannah whispered, her voice trembling. She shook her head, backing away toward the door as if the very word were a contagion. "Alpha Grefo, I... I thought you meant a physical wound. An internal sickness of the organs. I am an herbalist. I deal with roots and leaves."

She looked at Guron, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock and dawning horror.

"I cannot do this. I have no experience with such things, and no herb in my bag can fix a man’s broken pride. It’s impossible for me."