Dark Desire: Thirty Nights of Submission

The hospital corridor smelled of disinfectant and bad coffee. Killian strolled down it like he owned the place—shirt open at the collar, suit jacket hooked between his arm and torso, all effortless alpha swagger. Executive director on paper, troublemaker by nature.

At the reception desk he leaned in, grin crooked.

“Oliver Price. Which room?”

The nurse checked her chart and nodded. “Ward C, room 12.”

Killian’s stride was unhurried but loud enough to announce himself before he even pushed open the door.

Inside, Oliver was half-upright in bed, one leg suspended in a heavy cast. Even in a hospital gown thrown aside for a designer t-shirt, he looked like he’d paid someone to style him. A magazine cover with broken bones.

Killian burst out laughing. “Mate, you look like a chandelier. I should hang ornaments off that thing.”

Oliver tilted his head, dry smile flickering. “And you look like you got lost between the boardroom and the bar. What’s your excuse?”

Killian dropped into the chair by the bed, stretching his legs like he owned the space. “Executive privilege. Shirt open, jacket off, still more alpha than you stuck here like charity décor.”

Oliver rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the smirk tugging at his mouth. “Go on then. Sign the cast. Big letters. Real embarrassing.”

Killian grinned wider. “Perfect. Gotta remind everyone who the real Alpha in this room is.”

Oliver raised a brow. “Didn’t even know you were in the city.”

Killian leaned back in the chair, one arm slung over the backrest, the other balancing his suit jacket. “Got back two weeks ago. Had to deal with some administrative crap—paperwork, board signatures, you know how it is.” His grin tilted as he looked Oliver over. “So tell me—what about you? I went by your place and your sister said you’d had… an ‘ancient.’” He chuckled, looking around the sterile white walls. “Guess she meant accident. Makes sense now. This room screams tragedy.”

Oliver snorted, shaking his head. “Trust you to turn my broken leg into a punchline.”

Killian smirked. “Mate, if I don’t, who will?”

Oliver raised a brow. “Go on, then.”

Killian chuckled.

Oliver sighed, fingers drumming against the sheets. “I’ve got a new script. Fresh, best I’ve written. But the thought of putting it in Sebastian’s hands—ugh.” His jaw clenched, disgust clear. “I’d rather torch the damn thing than let that parasite touch it.”

Killian gave a low laugh, though his eyes softened. “Still hate the bloke, huh?”

“‘Hate’ doesn’t cover it,” Oliver muttered.

Before Killian could answer, his phone buzzed. He checked the screen, smirk fading into the sharper mask of business. “Secretary. Can’t dodge this one.” He stood, slipping his suit jacket back into place with practiced ease. “Don’t go running off while I’m gone, chandelier.”

Oliver snorted, rolling his eyes. “Piss off.”

Killian grinned, already heading for the door, voice trailing with that careless charm. “Heal up, Ollie. The city’s too boring without you.”

He left Oliver’s room with his usual swagger, but his mind was already half on his secretary’s message. He barely noticed the sterile hum of the hospital corridor—until he did.

On one of the waiting chairs, Theodore sat with his son on his lap. The child’s small fingers clutched at Theo’s shirt, his breathing shallow, face pale.

Killian froze mid-step.

It wasn’t the first time. A few days ago, on the street, he’d seen the boy dash after a ball. The moment had clawed into his memory—the flash of bright blue eyes, the same shade staring back at him in every mirror since childhood. He’d told himself it was coincidence, a trick of light.

He forced his steps to the reception desk, voice lower than usual, stripped of charm. “The boy. With the professor. What’s his case?”

The woman glanced at the file. “He’s under observation for Hartmann’s Syndrome. Rare condition, hereditary. It affects the nervous system and muscle strength. We’re monitoring progression.”

The name hit Killian like a fist. Hartmann’s. The curse of his bloodline. He’d escaped it by luck, but some cousins hadn’t. Uncles hadn’t.

His breath sharpened, chest heavy.

Five years. That boy couldn’t be older than five. Five years since Theodore disappeared from the city. Five years since…

He looked back again. The child’s lashes fluttered in restless sleep. His face, his jawline—Drake blood written clear.

The last threads of denial snapped.

Killian walked toward Theodore, every step iron.

Theodore looked up, startled, clutching the boy tighter to his chest, glasses slipping down his nose.

Killian’s voice broke the silence, rough and trembling with fury and certainty all at once:

“Tell me the truth, Theo… Is he my son?”