Chapter 5 · Fixing The Alpha Tyrant

Those were whip scars.

The old scars, clearly there for years, still protruded hideously. They looked like several centipedes clinging to either side of his spine.

The topmost scar even stretched to his nape gland, and for an Alpha, that was torture.

"Dr. Cook!" Jenny shouted as she burst in with the medical team.

I swiftly pulled down Lucas' shirt.

"Administer low-dose sedatives and IV," I instructed.

With that, I stood up, blocking their view. "Get the isolation room ready. His pheromone levels are off the charts."

As the medical team lifted Lucas onto the stretcher, a pocket watch slipped from his coat.

I picked it up, and when I flipped open the lid, I spotted an inscription on the inside: [Pain is the Shaw family's badge of honor.]

*****

The next week, Lucas returned to the office in a crisp suit, looking as composed as ever.

At lunch, Lucas suddenly said, "About last week... How much did you see?"

Sunlight streamed through the glass ceiling, casting delicate shadows across his lashes.

I put down my fork and replied, "Enough to warrant an adjustment to your treatment plan."

Lucas raised an eyebrow. "Like what?"

"Like this."

I pulled out a velvet pouch from my bag. "Emotional recognition flashcards, the kind they use in kindergarten."

Lucas narrowed his eyes with icy disdain.

The box featured cartoon animals such as a cheerful puppy, a grumpy hippo, and a sad little bunny.

"Do you have a death wish?" he asked.

"Can you actually tell these emotions apart?" I countered.

I pulled out a flashcard featuring a surprised koala and asked, "Right now, am I afraid or being provocative?"

Lucas studied me for a long moment before reaching out and gripping my chin.

The gesture should have been menacing, but his grip was surprisingly gentle.

"You're smiling," Lucas said, his thumb brushing the corner of my mouth.

"However, your eyes remain still. It's a fake smile," he added.

When I heard that, my heart skipped a beat.

According to textbooks, patients with emotional cognitive disorders would often possess uncanny observational skills. They relied on logic rather than intuition to interpret emotions.

"Perfect score."

I brushed his hand aside. "Your turn now, Mr. Shaw."

For the rest of lunch, we played that bizarre game of guessing each other's facial expressions.

Lucas could precisely analyze muscle movements. He even said, "Your orbicularis oculi contracts more when frowning." However, he simply couldn't comprehend why anyone would cry tears of joy.

When I explained why some would cry tears of joy, Lucas looked at me like I was trying to pull a fast one on him.

"Emotions don't follow logic, Mr. Shaw," I said.

I then gathered the flashcards. "Just like how you get the urge to smash things during your rut."

His expression frosted over instantly. "Don't mention that day."

"Why? Is it because showing vulnerability is shameful?"

I tried to provoke him intentionally. "Or is it because of those scars on your back—"

Lucas slammed the coffee cup down, cracking the wooden table.

He then shot to his feet, his pheromones slicing through the air like a blade. "Don't mistake your uniqueness for the license to do as you please."

"My uniqueness?" I tilted my head, a teasing smile playing on my lips. "What exactly do you mean by that, Mr. Shaw?"

He snapped his mouth shut, a tell-tale flush rising to the tips of his ears.

It was a revelation.

Lucas actually reacted to my words.

Right then, I knew I had to update my notes.

I wrote: [The patient has begun to form emotional connections. Progress: +3.]

That night, I scoured every report I could find about the Shaw family.

It was 2 a.m. when I finally found a crucial clue in a moldy business magazine.

One of the lines read: [The Shaw family's teaching method. The eldest son begins pheromone resistance training at age five and participates in his first M&A deal at twelve.]

In the photo, the little boy stood at the podium, his eyes hauntingly vacant.

Suddenly, my phone buzzed with a text from Lucas that read: [Orphanage donation tomorrow. Join me.]

I replied: [What should I prepare? A crying-proof mask? That place will be crawling with kids.]

Lucas: [Bring your dumb flashcards.]

*****

"This is a day for you to experience emotions, not a hostage situation," I said, pushing the tablet toward Lucas.

"Article 4 of the treatment protocol states that exposure to everyday scenarios fosters emotional connections," I added.

Lucas stared at the list of locations I'd marked on the screen and frowned deeply. "You expect me to queue for coffee?"

"You'll also need to feed the pigeons at the park.

"Also, take the subway," I answered.

His pen nib drilled a third hole into the solid wood table.

Ever since his rut ended, Lucas' tolerance for me had subtly improved.

He'd gone from possibly killing me to possibly wrecking things up.

Chapter 5

Those were whip scars.

The old scars, clearly there for years, still protruded hideously. They looked like several centipedes clinging to either side of his spine.

The topmost scar even stretched to his nape gland, and for an Alpha, that was torture.

"Dr. Cook!" Jenny shouted as she burst in with the medical team.

I swiftly pulled down Lucas' shirt.

"Administer low-dose sedatives and IV," I instructed.

With that, I stood up, blocking their view. "Get the isolation room ready. His pheromone levels are off the charts."

As the medical team lifted Lucas onto the stretcher, a pocket watch slipped from his coat.

I picked it up, and when I flipped open the lid, I spotted an inscription on the inside: [Pain is the Shaw family's badge of honor.]

*****

The next week, Lucas returned to the office in a crisp suit, looking as composed as ever.

At lunch, Lucas suddenly said, "About last week... How much did you see?"

Sunlight streamed through the glass ceiling, casting delicate shadows across his lashes.

I put down my fork and replied, "Enough to warrant an adjustment to your treatment plan."

Lucas raised an eyebrow. "Like what?"

"Like this."

I pulled out a velvet pouch from my bag. "Emotional recognition flashcards, the kind they use in kindergarten."

Lucas narrowed his eyes with icy disdain.

The box featured cartoon animals such as a cheerful puppy, a grumpy hippo, and a sad little bunny.

"Do you have a death wish?" he asked.

"Can you actually tell these emotions apart?" I countered.

I pulled out a flashcard featuring a surprised koala and asked, "Right now, am I afraid or being provocative?"

Lucas studied me for a long moment before reaching out and gripping my chin.

The gesture should have been menacing, but his grip was surprisingly gentle.

"You're smiling," Lucas said, his thumb brushing the corner of my mouth.

"However, your eyes remain still. It's a fake smile," he added.

When I heard that, my heart skipped a beat.

According to textbooks, patients with emotional cognitive disorders would often possess uncanny observational skills. They relied on logic rather than intuition to interpret emotions.

"Perfect score."

I brushed his hand aside. "Your turn now, Mr. Shaw."

For the rest of lunch, we played that bizarre game of guessing each other's facial expressions.

Lucas could precisely analyze muscle movements. He even said, "Your orbicularis oculi contracts more when frowning." However, he simply couldn't comprehend why anyone would cry tears of joy.

When I explained why some would cry tears of joy, Lucas looked at me like I was trying to pull a fast one on him.

"Emotions don't follow logic, Mr. Shaw," I said.

I then gathered the flashcards. "Just like how you get the urge to smash things during your rut."

His expression frosted over instantly. "Don't mention that day."

"Why? Is it because showing vulnerability is shameful?"

I tried to provoke him intentionally. "Or is it because of those scars on your back—"

Lucas slammed the coffee cup down, cracking the wooden table.

He then shot to his feet, his pheromones slicing through the air like a blade. "Don't mistake your uniqueness for the license to do as you please."

"My uniqueness?" I tilted my head, a teasing smile playing on my lips. "What exactly do you mean by that, Mr. Shaw?"

He snapped his mouth shut, a tell-tale flush rising to the tips of his ears.

It was a revelation.

Lucas actually reacted to my words.

Right then, I knew I had to update my notes.

I wrote: [The patient has begun to form emotional connections. Progress: +3.]

That night, I scoured every report I could find about the Shaw family.

It was 2 a.m. when I finally found a crucial clue in a moldy business magazine.

One of the lines read: [The Shaw family's teaching method. The eldest son begins pheromone resistance training at age five and participates in his first M&A deal at twelve.]

In the photo, the little boy stood at the podium, his eyes hauntingly vacant.

Suddenly, my phone buzzed with a text from Lucas that read: [Orphanage donation tomorrow. Join me.]

I replied: [What should I prepare? A crying-proof mask? That place will be crawling with kids.]

Lucas: [Bring your dumb flashcards.]

*****

"This is a day for you to experience emotions, not a hostage situation," I said, pushing the tablet toward Lucas.

"Article 4 of the treatment protocol states that exposure to everyday scenarios fosters emotional connections," I added.

Lucas stared at the list of locations I'd marked on the screen and frowned deeply. "You expect me to queue for coffee?"

"You'll also need to feed the pigeons at the park.

"Also, take the subway," I answered.

His pen nib drilled a third hole into the solid wood table.

Ever since his rut ended, Lucas' tolerance for me had subtly improved.

He'd gone from possibly killing me to possibly wrecking things up.