The doors of Dahmer's mansion clicked shut behind them. But the transition from the sterile, concrete hellhole back into the high-ceilinged warmth of the foyer did little to ease the trembling in Malcolm's limbs. His hands, though scrubbed entirely clean of Jodein's blood in the facility's washroom, still felt hot and stained with the phantom weight of many years of buried rage. His lower body, too, throbbed with a dull, persistent ache from the previous night's relentless mating lock, making every step a quiet, calculated battle against his own S-tier Alpha pride.
Beside him, Dahmer walked with a slow, deliberate stride, his hand still anchored firmly around Malcolm's waist, physically steering him forward through the quiet corridors.
As they rounded the corner into the expansive, sunlit living room, the emotional silence between them was instantly shattered.
