The high-pitched, frantic beeping of the diagnostic kit seemed to grow louder, filling the vast, amber-lit dining hall with a sound like a ticking time bomb. The air was thick, heavy with the sharp, burning scent of Malcolm's failing Alpha pheromones and the unmistakable, metallic tang of blood spilled across the polished wood table.
Dahmer's fingers trembled where they were tangled in the fabric of Malcolm's torn cashmere sweater. His breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, his silver eyes fixed on the dark, swelling veins crawling up the King's neck. For a single, terrifying second, his muscles locked. Every protective instinct inside his Enigma biology screamed at him to keep his arms wrapped around his mate, to shield the dying Alpha from any outside touch.
