Chapter 27: Lethal Obsession

The private dressing room behind the grand stage was a stark contrast to the vibrant, sapphire-lit chaos of the town square. It was a secluded sanctuary lined with heavy, soundproof velvet drapes that muffled the distant roaring of the crowd into a faint, rhythmic thrum. The room was illuminated only by the warm, dim glow of a vanity mirror and a single overhead amber light, casting deep, dramatic shadows across the floor.

Dorrent sat in a plush, high-backed leather armchair, his long legs crossed elegantly at the ankle. He had discarded his suit jacket, rolling the sleeves of his crisp white shirt up to his forearms, exposing the powerful, corded muscles of his wrists. His massive, intimidating frame completely dominated the small space. Across from him, sitting on a stool near the dressing table, was Diva.

Dorrent didn’t speak. He simply leaned back, his silver-rimmed eyes tracking every rise and fall of her chest, every slight tilt of her head, completely absorbing the elegant, fragile lines of her silhouette beneath the midnight-black silk dress.

Diva sat with her hands folded in her lap, her eyes staring back at him through the narrow slits of the face mask. The air in the room was saturated with the sweet, elusive floral musk of her pheromones.

Finally, the singer broke the silence, her voice dropping into that low, bewitching register that had held thousands hostage just an hour prior.

"Five million credits," she murmured, a faint, mocking undertone brushing against her words. "Why would a man like you—pay an astronomical fortune just to see a face? A face you don’t even know, hidden behind a piece of silk."

Dorrent’s jaw clenched slightly, his expression remaining a flawless mask of cold, corporate detachment. He didn’t let her see the chaotic storm brewing beneath his skin, nor the memory of the possessive rage that had driven him to crush the bidding war.

"I am a businessman," Dorrent replied, his voice a deep, velvety purr that vibrated through the quiet room. "I appreciate rare commodities. I have heard the rumors in the high-society lounges—how people praise the breathtaking beauty hidden behind that mask. I simply wanted to see it for myself, to evaluate if the prize matches the legend."

Diva let out a short, soft breath that sounded dangerously close to a cynical laugh. She tilted her head, her eyes locking onto his with a piercing, analytical focus. "A viewing. Is that truly all you bought for five million credits? Men of your status rarely part with that kind of wealth without demanding a return on their investment. Do you have... alternative interests tonight, Sir? Other desires that you expect me to take care of?"

The implication hung heavily in the stagnant air, a direct challenge to the manhood Dorrent was desperately protecting. A flash of dark, defensive irritation flared in his eyes, but he quickly suppressed it, leaning forward until his shadow completely engulfed her low stool.

"Do not flatter yourself," Dorrent rasped, his tone dripping with forced condescension. "I don’t require your compliance in anything else. If you want to earn your keep tonight, I would like to hear you sing. Sing the song you performed on the stage."

Diva closed her eyes beneath the mask. She took a slow, deep breath, her slender collarbones rising sharply against the black silk. When she opened her eyes again, the professional distance had vanished, replaced by a deep, ancient melancholy that made the air feel instantly heavier.

She parted her hidden lips, and without the aid of a microphone, her voice filled the small dressing room like liquid velvet.

{The Song of the Solitary Blood}

The winter frost clings to the stone,

A golden crown upon a throne of bone.

The hearth is bright, the halls are wide,

But there is a phantom crawling deep inside.

Oh, the blood is ancient, the blood is deep,

A promise that the silent stars must keep.

To walk the garden in a shroud of gray,

To watch the bleeding dawn turn into day.

A single touch turns the marrow cold,

A toxic story that was never told.

The hands that reach for love will surely break,

A hollow ruin in the morning’s wake.

I yearn for the heat, I yearn for the flame,

To hear an Alpha softly speak my name.

But the shadow wraps around my lonely chest,

A solitary curse that cannot rest.

So let the music weave the binding lace,

A ghost who walks without a true embrace...

As the final, haunting whisper of the melody died down, the room felt as cold as a tomb. Dorrent sat completely transfixed, his breath hitched in his chest. The song was devastatingly sad—a hidden, bleeding lamentation that spoke of an agonizing loneliness, of a soul being cursed to walk the earth entirely single and untouched, yearning desperately for love and physical attention, yet being forced to destroy anyone who dared to get close. It wasn’t direct; the meaning was buried beneath metaphors of frost and blood, but to Dorrent, a man who was currently living in his own solitary, impotent purgatory, the words cut straight to his marrow.

He leaned back, his eyes narrowing as he studied her. "What inspired that song?" he asked, his voice unexpectedly quiet, almost raw. "What kind of grief creates a melody like that?"

Diva stood up from her stool, her movements fluid and devoid of her earlier hesitation. She didn’t look at him as she reached for the silver-threaded ties at the back of her head.

"You don’t need to know," she said flatly.

With a single, deliberate movement of her fingers, she unknotted the silk. The face mask slipped away from her skin, tumbling down to the dressing table like a discarded shield.

The light from the vanity mirror illuminated her face perfectly.

Dorrent’s heart did a violent, erratic skip against his ribs. The breath completely left his lungs. Just as his subconscious had predicted in the terrors of his nightmare, and just as his instincts had screamed when he heard her voice—it was Jannah. Her porcelain-pale skin looked luminous under the amber bulb, her eyes wide and unblinking, her jaw set in that same stubborn, infuriating line of absolute defiance.

"Jannah," he whispered, the name slipping from his lips before his pride could stop it. He stared at her, "I knew it... I knew that figure belonged to you."

Jannah let out a cold, bitter chuckle, wrapping her arms over her chest as she stared down at the towering Alpha. "Isn’t it strange, Alpha Grefo? Isn’t it utterly fascinating how a grand, high-born S-tier Alpha has so perfectly memorized the physical figure of a peasant girl he claims to hate? You call me ’filth,’ you call me ’trash’ from the slums, yet you can pick my silhouette out from a crowd of thousands."

The comment hit his pride like a physical blow. Dorrent surged to his feet, his height instantly dwarfing her small frame, his eyes glowing with a sudden, defensive fury.

"Do not get ahead of yourself, physician," Dorrent hissed, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low vibration. "It has nothing to do with memory, and certainly nothing to do with admiration. It is a fundamental rule of survival. It is about knowing your enemy better than they know themselves."

Jannah looked at him for a long, silent beat, her eyes reflecting his rage with a chilling, calm indifference.

"Believe whatever lies help you sleep at night, Dorrent," she said softly, reaching down to grab her simple, dark trench coat from the chair. She threw it over her shoulders, completely burying the midnight-black silk dress beneath the heavy fabric. "I don’t have the energy to trade insults with you right now. My time is up, and I’ve given you the viewing you paid for."

She turned toward the exit door at the back of the dressing room, her fingers wrapping around the handle.

"Where do you think you’re going?" Dorrent commanded, his Alpha aura flaring slightly in an attempt to freeze her in place. "We ain’t done here yet."

Jannah paused, looking back over her shoulder with a wicked, triumphant smirk that made Dorrent’s stomach drop.

"I won’t be coming home tonight, Alpha," she said, her voice dripping with a casual, devastating malice. "I have plans. I’ll be sleeping at my boyfriend’s place tonight. Don’t wait up for me."

Before Dorrent could even process the words, Jannah pushed the heavy door open and stormed out into the cool night alleyway, the iron door slamming shut behind her with a deafening, echoing CLANG that shattered the silence of the room.

Dorrent stood completely frozen in the center of the dressing room, the air still smelling faintly of her sweet, toxic omega musk.

My boyfriend’s place.

The words repeated in his mind like a physical assault. A violent, suffocating wave of pure, unadulterated fury and an intense, toxic jealousy flooded his veins, burning away his logic entirely. His mind flashed to the image of her pale, slender body—the long legs, the tiny waist, the firm, hard breasts that had poked his chest in the pool—being touched, looked at, and possessed by some common, filthy laborer from the lower sectors.

A boyfriend? Dorrent’s jaw clenched with such force a sharp pain shot through his skull. What kind of a man would admire such an unkempt, primitive woman? What kind of low-born trash is she running to?

Dorrent grabbed his midnight-blue suit jacket from the chair, his eyes burning with a lethal, crimson light as he strode toward the door. He had to see him. He had to know exactly where she was going, and who she was giving her filthy body to.