Caught by the Mad Alpha King-Chapter 387: The Man in the Mirror

Adonis awoke like a drowned man, with his lungs burning and his body insisting on panic before his mind could even piece together where he was.

For a moment he didn’t remember the room. Then he did, because the room had no personality. No softness. No scent that belonged to anyone human. Cheap paint. A bare bulb with a faint buzzing hum. A mattress that smelled like detergent and old sweat. The type of place you’d rent if you needed walls more than dignity.

The first thing he did, as always, was reach for the part of himself that used to be instinct.

Nothing.

The same clean, brutal absence. Like waking up and realizing the limb you’d lost was still missing, only worse because his body insisted on feeling it anyway, the phantom sensation of heat under his skin, the ghost of a pressure at the back of his throat, a remembered pull in the glands that no longer existed.

He lay very still, staring at the ceiling, and waited for the first wave to pass.

It didn’t.

Five years of running had taught him a lot of things. How to change his gait when he walked through crowds so cameras didn’t map him. How to keep his eyes down and his voice ordinary. How to eat fast, sleep lighter, and never linger anywhere long enough to become a routine. How to cut his hair with shaking hands over a sink and convince himself the unevenness was a choice.

It had also taught him that the body mourns quietly until the mind realizes it has permission to scream.

And his mind... His mind was finally letting him.

He sat up with the slow care that men give to injuries they pretend aren’t there. The air was cold, and the fabric of his shirt was stuck to his back from sweat that had no cause other than the war inside his nerves. He swung his feet to the floor and sat on the edge of the bed, palms flat against his thighs, staring at the thin line of light beneath the door.

In the old days, he would have scented the room without thinking. He would have known if someone had been here. He would have known if a stranger had stood close, if fear had lingered in the air, or if the city outside the window carried rain or smoke or sex.

Now there was only sight, sound, and the ugly truth of his own breath.

He got up and crossed to the mirror he’d propped on the dresser. It was warped in one corner, and the cheap glass made the reflection appear distorted even when it wasn’t - as if the world was already warning you not to believe what you saw.

He looked anyway.

He always looked anyway, like touching a bruise to confirm it was real.

His eyes were the first betrayal. Still his color, technically, but hollowed out at the edges, like something behind them had burned and left ash. Cheekbones sharper from years of eating whatever fit in his hands. Mouth tighter. The back of his neck was marked by old scars that weren’t dramatic enough to make anyone gasp, only sharp enough to make people look away.

The scent gland hadn’t been ripped out in a moment of madness the way the stories would frame it. It hadn’t been a simple act of desperation, with a man severing his own tether to be free.

It had been planned.

A surgeon with an old debt met him in a back room that smelled like bleach and fear. Adonis demanded a mirror, because he needed to be in control and the last thing that felt like him.

The blade bit. The world went white. He didn’t scream. He watched the gland emerge like a wet, ugly secret, and when it vanished, his body tried to push pheromones that no longer existed, only to hit emptiness, like shouting with your mouth sewn shut.

After that, the surgeon wrapped him with care and offered advice, reassurance, or a reminder that Adonis still had options.

It was a mistake.

Adonis killed him before dawn because debts didn’t cover witnesses.

That was the only rule that had kept him alive for five years: don’t let fear take over your life.

He dressed quickly and methodically, as if he were assembling a disguise rather than putting on clothes. Dark pants. A plain shirt. An elegant jacket that made him still look good. He checked his possessions without appearing to be checking: cash folded thin, a wiped phone, a second phone with a dead SIM card, keys that did not belong to him, and a small blade that did.

His hands were steady in a way his mind wasn’t.

Every motion reactivated the phantom: the reflex to release pheromones into the air before exiting, to scent-check the corridor, and to taste the space as an alpha used to.

Nothing answered.

The silence was still there, cruel and clean, and it made his skin prickle like the world itself was too close.

He forced himself to breathe anyway. Once. Twice. Enough to keep the dizziness from winning.

Draxil was far.

Draxil was a direction, not a destination, an idea he’d been moving toward because ideas didn’t betray you the way people did. Draxil referred to border noise and transit hubs, with too many bodies to determine which was more important. Draxil meant a place where even a king’s reach got... complicated.

He slung the bag over his shoulder, killed the light, and left the room.

The hallway smelled like old carpet and stale cigarettes. His boots barely made a sound. He kept his gaze low, posture ordinary, and face blank: no noble arrogance left to broadcast, no pheromones to warn anyone off, just a man who looked like he belonged nowhere.

At the reception desk, the clerk didn’t even look up properly. That was the benefit of motels like this: nobody asked questions as long as your money didn’t bounce.

Adonis pushed through the glass door and stepped outside.

Cold air hit him hard, sharp enough to make his eyes water. The parking lot was a flat stretch of gravel and cracked asphalt, lit by a single flickering lamp that made everything feel like bad surveillance footage.

And then he saw them.

Dark cars. Parked in a slow, quiet line like they owned the air around them.

For one heartbeat, his brain tried to deny it, to dismiss it as coincidence, to rewrite the scene’s shape into something more palatable.

Then the largest car caught the light, and the man leaning against it lifted his head.

Dax.

He was dressed simply in dark trousers and a plain coat, like he’d stepped out of a private meeting and into a hunt without changing. His white-blonde hair fell to his shoulders, smooth and absurdly untouched by time, like not a second had passed over him. The same posture, the same stillness that made the world feel smaller around him.

There were no guards visible up close, but Adonis could feel their presence, much like you feel knives before you see them.

His body reacted out of habit.

The phantom sensation surged, his skin screaming for pheromones that didn’t exist. His throat tightened. His lungs forgot how to take a full breath.

Dax’s gaze held him in place with the quiet confidence of a man who didn’t need to hurry.

Adonis stopped walking because his legs had decided for him.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

The night hummed. The motel sign buzzed overhead like a dying insect.

Then Dax’s mouth curved... He tilted his head and analyzed Adonis for a moment. His cruel laugh echoed in the parking lot.