Chapter 70

By the time Rhys Elliott turned twenty-five, he had fully matured into the stature of an adult man. Strangely, he had grown a little taller, his frame far firmer than it had been at twenty-three. His appearance, once delicate and pretty despite his height, had ripened into something even more refined as muscle settled evenly over his body, lending him elegant lines.

Years of sculpting had made his strength formidable, and the workouts he had taken up to sustain such grueling labor only improved his build. Yet his delicate features and tranquil aura remained unchanged; Rhys was someone who left an impression of profound beauty rather than simple masculinity.

For two years, Rhys did nothing but sculpt. His debut piece, completed a year prior, had successfully ushered him into the professional art world. He never shared the statue’s true title, but the public took to calling it Pietà. Since nearly every sculptor passed through a phase of imitating Michelangelo’s work at least once, and Rhys deeply respected the master’s masterpiece, he never corrected the nickname.

Blake, in particular, was fond of the piece, and rumors quickly spread among collectors. No matter what astronomical offers he received, however, Rhys refused to sell. The price was irrelevant; from the very beginning, he hadn’t created it for profit. It was a work meant to preserve the awe and longing he had felt in the moment that changed his life—and the emotion he had once believed was…

Love.

By then, Rhys had grown sick to death of the emotion called love, all because of the “imprint” his twenty-three-year-old self had recklessly formed. It was a feeling that served no practical purpose in his life. From the moment he woke, tears would spill from sheer longing. For nearly two years, he endured the agonizing torment of feeling as though he were losing his mind, all because he could not see a man he had met only twice.

He loathed to even recall the process of breaking that imprint. The treatment itself was straightforward enough, but the emotions and physical sensations he endured were horrific.

A profound sense of loss.

A grief that tore his chest open.

A mind that interpreted his inability to see the man as a personal rejection.

A body that constantly generated feverish heat, torturing itself by going into a rut over a Beta who wasn’t even an Omega.

Being forced to mingle with unwanted company and exposed to foreign Omega pheromones was truly agonizing. Beginning with Blake, who knew his predicament, his cousins Björn and Zev—who had relocated from San Diego—relentlessly introduced him to various Omegas. Though his body and heart refused to respond to anyone but Dante, he forced himself to cooperate with his cousins’ suggestions for the sake of his treatment.

The Omegas introduced to him were all kind-hearted people who pitied his circumstances. They were more than willing to become his lovers; data suggested that the tragic narrative of a beautiful, suffering Alpha touched a chord of desire and compassion within them.

Rhys went on several dates, but he couldn’t bring himself to so much as hold their hands. The moment the backs of their fingers brushed, an instinctive revulsion would surge within him, rendering intimacy impossible. After two years, the wicked fantasies about Dante had finally faded, along with the agonizing ache of missing him to the point of madness. Even so, his body still recoiled at the touch of anyone else.

The duration required to sever an imprint typically depended on how much time the two individuals had spent together, meaning Rhys’s case should have been minor. After all, how long could it possibly take to forget a man he had met only twice, and with whom he had been lucid for barely twenty minutes? If the severity of the withdrawal depended entirely on shared history, mutual memories, and the depth of an actual relationship, Rhys should have transitioned with almost no trouble at all.

But that was not the case. A critical incident occurred mid-treatment, and after that day, no one ever forced Rhys to forget Dante again. It happened when his mother, following the doctor’s recommendation to dispose of every object connected to the other party, attempted to throw away the blue handkerchief.

At first, when he saw his mother take it, he genuinely thought he would be fine. But as he watched the handkerchief leave his room, destined for the trash, a vast, suffocating wave of loss crashed over him. Though he had been sitting frozen on his bed, he suddenly bolted toward her like a madman, clinging to her desperately.

“No, please don’t throw it away! Please, I’m begging you,” he cried. “I really can’t… I can’t be without it…”

His maternal uncle, who had been present for the ordeal, stepped in to restrain him. “Rhys, this is truly nothing,” he reasoned. “You and this person have no real relationship. You don’t love him; you merely mistook profound admiration for love. He is someone you are grateful to, but the two of you were never in love.”

Not a single word pierced through his hysteria. Unable to push away her son as he clung to her, weeping pitifully, Rhys’s mother tried to hand the handkerchief back—but his uncle intervened, snatching it away. The moment Rhys realized his only physical connection to Dante was about to vanish, his eyes rolled back in sheer panic. He lunged desperately to claw the fabric back while his uncle fought to keep it out of reach. Caught between their straining hands, the blue cotton stretched taut and gave way.

Riiip.

The moment Rhys saw the blue fabric tear, he clutched his throat and collapsed. Terrified by the sight of him wheezing and suffocating, his uncle hastily dropped the remnant, while his mother frantically called the doctor. Rhys later learned that it had been an acute shock symptom—a violent physiological reaction that occurs when an Alpha’s deeply treasured possession is forcibly torn away.

His mother eventually entrusted the damaged handkerchief to an artisan to be meticulously repaired. A delicate patch of fabric was sewn over the tear, overlaid with beautifully embroidered irises—the flower he was named after. In this manner, the simple blue handkerchief Dante had given him was transformed into an elegant, custom-embroidered keepsake.

After that harrowing incident, no one pushed him further. Having witnessed his entire family suffer on his account, Rhys did his absolute best to cooperate with the treatment. He, too, desperately wanted to rid himself of this one-sided imprint. This volatile thing called “instinct,” which operated entirely independent of reason, had brought nothing but grief to the people he cherished most.

Even when his cousins weren’t playing matchmaker, there were plenty of Omegas eager to approach him. He met them at parties where young artists gathered and at events hosted by Blake. There were countless times when people asked for his number while he was walking down the street or sitting in a café. He went on casual outings that bordered on dates often enough. Through that process, he learned a great deal about social graces and came to know the most attractive corners of Manhattan.

Then one day, as he grew increasingly adept at navigating these interactions, Rhys imagined, just once, what it would be like if every date he went on were with Dante. Unlike the awkward twenty-three-year-old who couldn’t even stammer a proper greeting, the current Rhys was frequently told he was charming. If he envisioned an ideal version of himself and performed the role, everyone wanted him. If he possessed this much skill now, perhaps even a man like Dante might actually entertain him.

How ridiculous. Dante was someone he would never meet again.

On a day when the burden of meaningless dates with people he didn’t care for became too heavy, Rhys decided to rest for a while. He wanted to focus on his work, wander through the park, read, and sketch. It happened to be August, a pleasant season for walking. The days were fiercely hot, but at night, the air cooled enough that a stroll through the park felt refreshing.

During the day, he stayed in the studio, sculpting a commissioned piece, and whenever he found a spare moment, he planned his personal work. It was about time to create something new. Yet, every time a rut arrived—one that no medication could soothe—Rhys would lose his mind and once again model sculptures after Dante. In truth, all of Rhys’s personal works were Dante.

That night, he headed toward Central Park, which was located near his home. After the incident with the handkerchief, when he had frightened his mother so badly, Rhys had found an apartment nearby and begun living independently. Having Central Park right on his doorstep made it a perfect refuge whenever his heart grew weary.

Although the worst had been averted, the memory of suffering a full-blown psychological attack over a mere piece of cloth filled Rhys with deep self-loathing. His Alpha traits began to feel inherently violent, and he grew to detest those characteristics within himself. Everyone on his father’s side was an Alpha, so he had never given it much thought before, but his mother was an Omega and his maternal uncle a Beta. The sight of Rhys collapsing that day must have traumatized them.

I wish I had been born a Beta, too.

Chewing over the sudden, bitter thought, he walked through Central Park and eventually took a seat on a bench facing the lake. He read a few pages of the book he had brought, but wanting to occupy his hands, he opened his sketchbook. Looking at the lake brought the ocean to mind, and before he knew it, Rhys was sketching the beach from two years ago. Because he had replayed the memory so many times in his head, every detail was vivid. He was deeply absorbed in his drawing when he caught the sound of a quiet sniffle beside him.

The sound of someone softly inhaling and exhaling a wet breath continued, followed by a tiny hiccup. It seemed someone had sat down right next to him. I was so focused I didn’t even notice someone approach. Slightly flustered, Rhys naturally turned his head. Then, his eyes widened in sheer disbelief. The person sitting beside him was a man—and Rhys knew this man instantly.

… No way.

It was just after sunset, so the sky had darkened, obscuring the man’s face in detail. Even so, Rhys was certain. It was him. The very person he had craved so desperately. A sensation as intense as a lightning strike shot from the crown of his head straight through his spine. Rhys couldn’t even draw a breath. The sheer impossibility of it made nausea churn in his stomach.

Could such a coincidence actually happen?

The man he had wanted to see so badly but could never reach, the man he had missed every single day for two long years, was suddenly sitting right beside him.

At the exact moment when he needed just a little more time to finally break the imprint.

He didn’t know how to articulate the complex web of emotions twisting inside him. It felt as though the heavens were playing a cruel joke. It felt as though they were mocking and toying with his life in exchange for saving it—and yet, at the same time, offering a miraculous hand.

As if guided by fate, Dante Bellini had appeared before him again.

At the exact moment Rhys was on the verge of forgetting him, almost as if to mock all his agonizing effort. Watching the damp, slightly trembling profile beside him, Rhys held his breath. The rational voice inside his head screamed warnings. They had no real connection; he should pretend to be a stranger. His doctor’s words flashed vividly through his mind: Your progress is excellent. Test results show that the region of the brain activated strictly during imprinting is reverting to a normal state. He also remembered the profound relief on his mother’s face when she heard the news.

Ignore him. He probably doesn’t even remember you.

Even as rational thoughts attempted to take hold, Rhys unfortunately became hyper-aware of the handkerchief tucked into his back pocket. Every nerve in his body focused on that blue fabric. That day on the beach, Dante had clearly told him:

“You keep that.”

He remembered the firm hands gripping his shoulders. The enveloping body heat. Rhys had always craved warmth; after falling into the freezing sea, he had become highly sensitive to the cold, preferring temperatures that bordered on hot. Dante’s body had possessed exactly that kind of radiant heat.

“You said we’d meet in New York. When we see each other then, you can return it. Until then, Iris, you can keep it.”

He remembered the smiling eyes of the man who had patted his head before turning away. Beautiful hazel eyes. A dazzling gold, as though they held the sun itself. The arms that had held Rhys tight, the brilliant flash of his smile, the deep, soothing register of his voice.

The very face Rhys had tried to preserve in marble and clay every single day for two years without fail.

He recalled the desperate days when he believed he could die happy if he could just see Dante one more time. He wanted to know whether the face he still drew out of habit matched his memory, or if the image had been distorted and beautified over time as he turned the recollection over and over in his mind.

I only want to verify it. I want to know if I remember him correctly. If he recognizes me.

Once I know that, maybe I’ll finally be able to let go. They said my progress is good. Would simply looking at his face and exchanging a word or two really revive the imprint? Reason stood no chance. Every cell composing Rhys’s body screamed for Dante.

Slowly, Rhys pulled out the neatly folded handkerchief. Dante’s scent had long since faded from the fabric, replaced by the scent of fabric softener, citrus, and a cool undertone that felt as free as a sea breeze. Yet, that long-lost scent somehow seemed to materialize in the air around them now. What kind of cologne did this man use? He was a Beta, so there was no way Rhys was picking up actual pheromones…

Suppressing the thought, Rhys reached out. When his hand stopped in front of Dante, the fingers supporting the blue cotton were trembling violently. He was so nervous he thought his heart might give out. He could scarcely believe that Dante was about to look up and face him.

Please, let me feel nothing.

Just as he whispered that desperate, self-deluding mantra to himself—

Their eyes met.

He saw those hazel eyes. He saw black lashes damp with tears, drooping pitifully, and dark brows pinched together in profound sorrow. He saw the reddened rims of his eyes, the flushed tip of his nose, and handsome lips colored a vivid, striking pink.

This was entirely different from the image of Dante that Rhys had preserved. In his memories, Dante always wore an easy, confident smile, radiating like the sun. He was as powerful as a saint rescuing a soul from the depths of the sea, like an immortal untouched by weakness.

The figure Rhys had idolized like a god with a reverence akin to worship was entirely at odds with the weeping Dante Bellini before him. The moment Rhys saw that vulnerable face, he should have…

He should have felt a sense of relief.

He should have been disappointed by a reality so different from his grand imagination, scoffing at the realization that Dante, too, was merely human.

But the instant he faced that startled expression, those wet hazel eyes looking up at him—truly, ah…

He was so utterly lovely that Rhys felt he might go insane.

“You looked like you needed it,” Rhys said softly, his voice steady.

Though Dante looked at the offered handkerchief with evident confusion, he accepted it with care. The moment Dante sniffled softly, Rhys’s heart began to hammer against his ribs as if it would burst. It was no exaggeration. Truly. Following the relentless, heavy thuds of his heartbeat, a wave of intense heat rushed through his entire body.

“Um… whoever you are… thank you, first of all,” Dante murmured, his voice hoarse.

Ha. What am I supposed to do? I’m losing my mind.

The instant he heard that raw, tear-strained voice, a dark thought flashed through Rhys’s mind. In the vulgar fantasies he had tried so hard to suppress, Dante had wept beneath him, though imagining his actual voice had always been difficult. Yet Rhys knew, instantly, that it would sound exactly like this. Surely, it would.

While Rhys entertained that blasphemous thought behind a perfectly polite, smiling facade, Dante thanked him again and wiped his face. The way he scrubbed hard enough to roughen his skin was inherently, unpretentiously masculine. He was that type of person—the quintessential image of a man, from his stride to the way he carried himself. The clumsy gesture suited his ruggedly handsome face so well that it shouldn’t have been cute, yet seeing it made Rhys’s heart ache with a violent intensity.

He’s adorable…

“But… since when were you here?” Dante asked, looking up.

“I’ve been here since you sat down crying, sir,” Rhys replied smoothly.

At those words, Dante flinched. A faint flush of embarrassment replaced the sorrow and bewilderment in his eyes, and just like Rhys had done in the past, he quietly averted his gaze. Watching Dante’s lips twitch as he struggled to find the right words sent a thrilling shiver through Rhys.

How could a person be this endearing? Without realizing it, Rhys watched him with a gentle, mesmerizing smile. The small, residual sniffs escaping him were cute, and the fact that he had sat down to cry without even noticing someone was already on the bench was fucking adorable. Dante was breathtaking just breathing in and out, and every time those hazel eyes flicked toward him, Rhys fought a primal urge to pull the man into his arms right then and there.

He must be smaller than me now. Even back then, I had to look down a little.

As the thought solidified, an unbearably electric, ticklish sensation spread through his chest. The Dante who had once seemed like a towering deity was, in reality, a man whose eye level was lower than his own, and whose nose turned red when he wept. The eyes that had once felt so steadfast and dominant now seemed strikingly innocent. Rhys wanted those innocent eyes to look at no one else but Iris Elliott—wanted them to be colored by pleasure, to weep, to smile, to frown under his gaze.

Because he is mine.

With terrifying, crystal-clear certainty, Rhys believed the man before him belonged to him. Yes. That was right. This was his man. It didn’t matter in the slightest that he was a Beta. He was someone Rhys had to hold, a possession that belonged exclusively to him, someone he desperately needed. Who made you cry like that? I would never make you cry from sadness. Perhaps during sex, but never from grief. I will love you with everything I have. I will protect you.

“You seem to be going through a difficult time,” Rhys said, his tone perfectly calibrated. “May I buy you a drink?”

Because you belong to me.

He was absolutely certain now. There was no other word for this except fate. The man who had first appeared when Rhys was physically dying had appeared again, this time at the exact moment Rhys’s soul was withering away. The man from that distant beach, whom he thought he would never see again, had walked right back into his life on his own accord. He had chosen to sit by Rhys’s side.

If that didn’t mean Dante was meant to be his, what else could it possibly mean?

“That sounds nice,” Dante replied softly.

Unlike his younger, stammering self, Rhys didn’t blush or falter. Even though his entire body was vibrating with a terrifying joy, he masked his agitation perfectly behind a breathtaking smile. He knew exactly how to look his most alluring; he lifted the corners of his mouth just so, letting his eyes narrow into a soft, bedroom curve. When he blinked his dark lashes lightly, deepening the smile, Dante’s gaze became utterly captivated.

That was when Rhys’s thoughts turned dark and absolute.

I want those eyes to look only at Iris Elliott. I want him to hold no one else in them, to lose the desire to look at anyone else. I want him to see only me. I want nothing to bring him joy unless it involves me. I want every single emotion he experiences to begin and end with me.

Rhys knew that the thoughts surging so violently within him were twisted. The moment he faced the object of his imprint after two years apart, his psyche became stained with possessive, unhealthy desires. It was undoubtedly a severe side effect of the imprint. As if compensating for the prolonged separation, a terrifying wave of possessiveness rose with a force that frightened even Rhys himself. He wanted to drag Dante away and lock him up immediately. Forever. Forever, so that he was the only one who could ever look at him.

Ah. I’ve completely gone mad.

It didn’t take him long at all to realize that truth.

***