* * *
“Ugh…”
God, this is hell.
Though Paul and the maids came in occasionally to give him medicine and check on him, Sylvian could barely muster any strength.
His lower body, softened and pliant, kept demanding something to fill it.
If not for Paul’s medicine, he would have stumbled out of the room and grabbed the first person he saw, begging to be taken.
“Haah…”
Just thinking about something filling him made the heat flare up again. Useless body.
Sylvian cursed his own biology.
Why was it that the one time he truly needed him, Zeroth was nowhere to be found?
This heat cycle was unbearable.
At first, he thought he could endure with just the medicine.
But after an entire night of sleepless agony, his body trembling from sheer frustration, he changed his mind.
Since Zeroth wasn’t interested in knotting anyway, if they were just using each other for pleasure, there was no harm in it.
No one would question if he was acting a little too desperate or eager during a heat cycle.
“Ah… Zeroth…”
Clutching Zeroth’s pillow, Sylvian’s hips slowly moved on their own.
“Ahh…!”
The room was thick with his pheromones.
But then, ever so faintly, he caught another scent—one that was cool and grounding.
Whisen.
“Ahhh!”
The thought of his sharp eyes and frosty expression made Sylvian’s body tighten in response.
Zeroth would never know.
How could one even define this twisted relationship?
They were both deceiving and being deceived.
Biting his lips, Sylvian deliberately let out a louder, more desperate moan.
“Ahh! Ngh…!”
As soon as he let go of the last thread of restraint, his body trembled as if it had been waiting for this moment.
‘This is what it means to be an omega in this world.’
Sylvian, abandoning all shame and dignity, began to sob uncontrollably.
“The Duchess’s fever has risen again.”
The waiting maids outside huddled together, whispering anxiously.
Elgana, too, pressed his lips together tightly at the sound of the Duchess’s cries seeping through the door.
“Try contacting the Duke again—”
“It will be too late.”
Just as Elgana turned toward the communicator, Whisen grabbed his arm in a rush.
His gaze was dark and grave.
The Beta Elgana and the maids looked at him with wide, incredulous eyes.
“The pheromones are spiraling out of control. Everyone, step back.”
He immediately relayed orders to the knights, instructing them to station guards around the mansion to prevent any Alphas from approaching.
Even for someone as disciplined as him, who could control his aura, the pheromones were thick enough to make his throat go dry.
Gripping the hilt of his sword tightly, Whisen fought to steady himself against the overwhelming scent—a warm, golden fragrance, like dry sunlight.
It was an absurdly potent pheromone, enough to envelop the entire mansion.
There would surely be Alphas who lost their minds and came rushing in.
He had to stand guard and fend them off.
“Aah—hngh!”
At the anguished cries from inside the bedroom, thick veins surfaced along Whisen’s neck.
‘Haa…’
“N-no! Aah! Nooo!”
Leaning against the door, Whisen forcibly suppressed his own pheromones.
If he affected the Duchess in the slightest, the Duke would kill him.
The Duke loathed the idea of anyone touching what belonged to him—even if it was just a toy.
Even though he had considered assigning a Beta or Omega knight for this duty, once again, Whisen had ended up guarding the Duchess himself.
He took a deep breath, inhaling the thick scent permeating the air, and remained alert—watchful, like a guard dog.
“You’re still not coming in?”
Sylvian, his voice thick with moans, suddenly snapped his eyes open.
He had learned something useful from Zeroth yesterday.
Licking his dry lips, Sylvian smirked.
“Ah—nn! Hah! Ngh!”
Without hesitation, his fingers slipped beneath his nightgown.
He had already learned how to prepare himself—this was just practice.
There was no need to wet his fingers with saliva; the effects of his cycle had already left him dripping.
Squish.
The moment a single finger slid in, his body trembled in pure pleasure.
“Haa! P-please…! Hic… please save me… ngh!”
Deliberately moaning louder, he pressed his fingers deeper, the slick sound filling the room.
Tears streamed down his face as he writhed, causing the blankets to slip off the bed, leaving him curled up—his flushed, rounded hips exposed in the cool air.
His fingers worked relentlessly between his thighs, stretching the small opening.
It wasn’t enough. He needed something bigger, something thicker.
“Z-Zeroth! Hngh! Ah—!”
Hearing the desperate cries from inside, Whisen clenched his teeth.
He needed to keep his head straight.
“Hic… Please… please help me…”
His hand hovered over the doorknob.
The maids had already been dismissed. No one else was here.
As if waiting for this moment, another surge of pheromones flooded out from inside.
‘Exhale.’
This was treatment.
That was all.
He had no feelings for the Duchess.
That morning, Paul had come to him and quietly whispered something.
[The heat cycle has already progressed too far, making it difficult to suppress with medicine. I won’t inform the Duke… Please share a bit of your pheromones.]
Seeing Paul’s desperate expression, he couldn’t bring himself to commit such blasphemy and shook his head.
Paul pleaded repeatedly, saying that nothing else was necessary—just a small release of pheromones would be enough.
Click.
As the door opened, the accumulated pheromones inside rushed toward him.
Lifting his gaze, he was met with the sight of the Duchess, his pale buttocks exposed, pushing his fingers deep inside himself.
…Is this how he presents himself when embraced by the Duke?
Whisen let out a slow breath and made his way toward the bed.
“Huht… Zeroth… It hurts.”
The Duchess, sobbing uncontrollably, seemed to have already lost all sense of reason.
That meant he likely wouldn’t remember even if he helped.
Watching his pale hips tremble erratically, Whisen wiped his hands in the water bowl beside him.
“Lord Sylvian, I will now release some pheromones.”
The moment he spoke, a cold pheromone, distinctly reminiscent of Whisen, surged into Sylvian.
“Hhiiik…!”
It smelled like a freezing winter—so potent it felt like it could silence everything and freeze him to his core.
Sylvian’s body trembled violently.
At the same time, he felt a slight sense of relief, as if his body was calming down.
“This is only a treatment. Excuse me.”
Squish.
Whisen pulled out Sylvian’s struggling fingers with some effort and replaced them with his own.
Even though only one had entered, the tight inner walls clamped down around his finger.
…No wonder the Duke loses himself like this.
A small sense of admiration flickered in his eyes.
“Uhh…! Haa—!”
A single finger soon became two, then three.
Overwhelmed by the unfamiliar, cooler pheromones—so different from Zeroth’—Sylvian buried his face into the sheets, muffling his moans.
Zeroth’ touch was gentle, careful.
In contrast, Whisen, despite his composed expression, was anything but rough.
His hands were rough, moving with a singular purpose—to consume the heat without concern for what lay within.
Each time his impatient fingers scraped and spread Sylvian’s sensitive walls, uncontrollable sobs burst from his lips.
“Zeroth! Hngh—Zeroth!”
As expected, his mind was too clouded to distinguish who was toying with his body.
Whisen pressed his lips into a thin line, fingers working deeper into the warm, pliant flesh.
His grip tightened around Sylvian’s trembling waist, resisting the urge to immediately bury himself inside.
No wonder the Duke couldn’t handle the Duchess in one go—at this point, it was clear why.
The small, trembling body was as seductive and addictive as a potent aphrodisiac.
Whisen shook his head roughly, trying to dispel unnecessary thoughts.
Before the Duke arrived, he had to suppress the heat quickly and return to an innocent, clueless expression.
“Hngh…!”
Good.
Unlike with Zeroth, Sylvian was completely lost in sensation.
* * *
