Chapter 35: Hidden information

Christian had not planned to meet him that night.

Not yet. Not like that.

He'd intended to wait—measured, calculated, patient as ever—until the party had softened the boy's defenses, until the wine had dulled the shine of vigilance in his eyes, until the crowd had drained enough of him that anything familiar, anything steady, might feel like gravity.

It was meant to be later.

After the speeches. After the toasts. After Lucas had smiled himself raw and nodded through the last well-placed insult disguised as praise.

That was when Christian wanted to step in. When his voice could feel like a reprieve, not a threat. When he could feel like an answer.

But fate, or whatever it was that passed for it in these halls, had always had a penchant for drama. For shadows slipping through open doors, for glances caught too early, for corners turned before names could be rehearsed.

And so—there he was.

Lucas.

He had expected beauty. He had prepared for it.

Misty had always hinted, always guarded him like a locked box no one could touch without payment, always spoke of him with that breathless blend of annoyance and pride that only meant one thing: irreplaceable asset.

Still, he hadn't expected this.

Not the sharpness in the boy's posture. Not the way he moved like someone already anticipating pain, already cataloguing exits, already tired of pretending that silk and diamonds could ever mean safety. Lucas hadn't just grown up in shadows—he'd memorized them.

Christian hadn't planned for that.

He'd prepared for a softer version—clever, yes, but green. Timid, maybe. Passive at worst. Someone who would look up at him with a trace of awe, the way unclaimed omegas so often did when finally noticed by someone powerful.

Lucas had been striking.

Not like a court-trained ornament, not like a pampered heir—no, he looked like someone who had learned to breathe in fire and silence and decided to make both look beautiful.

And in that moment, Christian understood.

Why Misty had kept him hidden.

Why she delayed every introduction. Why the paperwork stalled, why the contract danced between names and clauses and conditional clauses, why she spoke of him only in half-formed phrases, always enough to tempt but never enough to deliver.

She hadn't been protecting Lucas.

She'd been protecting herself.

Because even Misty Kilmer, with all her ambition and calculation, had known what she was holding—and how easily it might slip from her hands the moment it was seen.

And now Christian had seen him.

And nothing else mattered.

He knew power when he felt it. Even veiled. Even broken.

Lucas walked like someone who had been betrayed so thoroughly that trust had become something private, almost holy—and that kind of silence, that earned wariness, couldn't be faked.

Christian had spent his whole life surrounded by flatterers and heirs and carefully trained courtiers who all tried to charm with surface and shadows.

Lucas wasn't charming.

Misty knew. She knew that Lucas wouldn't break the way most omegas did.

Wouldn't bend. Wouldn't blush. Wouldn't fall into his arms with gratitude for being chosen.

He wasn't grateful. He was dangerous.

But Christian had always liked danger—when it was quiet. When it was pretty. When it hadn't yet realized it was a weapon.

He'd smiled, of course. Polite. Smooth. Just enough warmth to slip past suspicion.

And Lucas had looked at him like the ground might open up.

A flicker. A tremor. Nothing more. But it was there.

Enough to make Christian's pulse sharpen behind his stillness.

Later, in his study, he would sit with that image—the wide green eyes, the stiffness in the shoulders, the sheer presence of a boy who had no right to make him feel anything at all—and he would make a note to change the timeline.

So he picked up his phone.

Pressed a single key.

"Have our medical contact retrieve the full file on Lucas Oz Kilmer," he said calmly, already swirling the glass in his hand. "Everything. Puberty onset, test results, family line screening, and suppressants—if any were administered unofficially."

He sipped. Smiled faintly to himself.

"It's not possible for an omega like that to have gone this long without awakening. Someone's tampered with it."

And when the secretary confirmed, quiet and quick, Christian leaned back in his chair and tapped the side of the glass.

—

The file arrived less than an hour later.

Encrypted, stripped of identifiers, but complete. And damning.

Christian opened it on the sleek screen of his tablet, fingertips moving with the same controlled ease he used to slice through contracts and negotiations. The interface was minimal—just rows of data, drop-down summaries, and expandable clinical notes. No distractions. No embellishments.

Just the truth.

And the lies that came before it.

He scrolled slowly at first, then faster as the shape of the deception began to take form.

Primary identifier: Lucas Oz Kilmer.

Secondary: Removed from central medical registry at age thirteen.

Guardian override authorization: Misty Kilmer.

Christian's jaw tensed.

He tapped twice.

The suppressed medical entries unfolded in a digital list that ran far too long for someone barely eighteen.

Christian scrolled, slowly at first, then faster, his thumb flicking through lines of clinical detachment that cut sharper than any accusation.

Monthly stabilizer injections — undocumented lot number.

No scent evolution recorded in standard developmental period.

Testosterone and omega hormone panels — deliberately muted.

Awakening suppressed through pharmacological intervention.

And then—worse.

Patient self-administered black market suppressants during early adolescence — dosage adjusted accordingly to avoid hormonal destabilization.

He stared.

Long enough for the words to blur for half a second.

Self-administered.

It wasn't just done to him.

Lucas had done it to himself.

At thirteen. Maybe younger.

Because someone had taught him that awakening was dangerous. That if he wanted to survive, he had to stay small. Stay scentless. Stay invisible.

And beneath it all, buried like a footnote not meant to be read:

General Examiner Note:

Strongly recommended for the patient to interrupt the administration of both doses of suppressants. Continued use at the current frequency may result in partial or complete infertility beginning in the early-to-mid twenties.

She had sold him a future she had already made biologically impossible.

She had built a contract on a child's fading ability to bear children and never once disclosed the risk. Never once slowed down. Just pushed the doses higher. Kept the papers clean. And watched the clock tick down like it was her own countdown to relevance.

Christian leaned back in his chair, the silence settling around him like ash—and then, sharp and final, came the crack, subtle but unmistakable, as the bourbon glass in his hand gave way, splintering beneath the pressure of a grip held too long, too tight, until the crystal shattered in his palm with a sound that did not belong to glass so much as it belonged to intent.