Alexander Kane practically slammed through the thick, soundproof door of his study.
With a loud "bang", the door closed forcefully behind him, completely isolating him from the outside world. The main lights remained off; only a vintage brass desk lamp on one side of the desk cast a dim, oppressive glow, barely illuminating a small area, leaving the rest of the room swallowed by heavy shadows.
He leaned against the cold metal door, breathing heavily and scorching hot with each inhalation feeling like dragging burning coals through his chest. A few strands of his meticulously styled dark hair fell slightly messy over his forehead, veins subtly throbbing at his temples. His usually icy, composed gray-blue eyes, the eyes that controlled everything, now churned with a terrifying storm. His pupils, reacting to the violent fluctuations of his pheromones, contracted slightly, taking on an almost animalistic sharp glint.
The air was thick with the pheromones he had lost control over—intense, violent, and overwhelmingly aggressive, blending cedarwood and leather scents. This fragrance, normally a symbol of absolute authority and icy control, now felt restless, like a volcano on the verge of eruption, carrying a destructive force that slammed against the confined space of the study. The expensive cigar ashtray on the desk was smashed by a single punch, scattering ashes across the surface.
A low, uncontrollable groan escaped from deep within his throat.
He yanked off his already loosened tie, flinging it to the floor as if breaking free from some restraint, followed by his suit jacket—ignoring the popping buttons. The custom-made shirt, slightly damp with sweat, clung to the tense muscles of his back, accentuating the explosive lines of his body under extreme stress.
Loss of control.
A word that had almost never appeared in his life dictionary.
Yet just moments ago, in the living room, facing that trembling, tearful "canary," he had come dangerously close—so close—to completely losing it. Her fearful gaze, the subtle, cautious gestures she tried to hide, her fragility like glass ready to shatter, and the faint, pure Omega scent leaking from her in response to extreme fear—each factor combined with the lingering irritation and deep mental fatigue accumulated from handling the mess in Emerald City, almost toppled the absolute self-control he prided himself on.
He despised losing control, despised everything slipping beyond his command—whether it was events, people, or especially himself.
Moving to the massive obsidian desk, he planted both hands on the cold surface, knuckles whitening from the force. Veins stood out sharply on the back of his hands. He lowered his head, attempting to forcefully suppress the raging tsunami of pheromones within him—a wild, nearly mind-shattering torrent—but the power was so ferocious, like a runaway beast, rampaging through his blood, screaming for destruction and possession.
Images of Isabella's pale face flashed uncontrollably through his mind: tear-filled eyes, the red mark on her delicate neck from his grip, and… the soft gland behind her neck under the suppression patch, slightly protruding.
"Damn it!" He slammed a fist onto the hard desktop, producing a deep, muffled crash. The lamp trembled violently.
He couldn't stay there any longer. One more second, and he couldn't guarantee what he might do. His pride in his reason, so fragile in the face of such pure fear, seemed laughably weak. He had no choice but to escape, locking himself in this absolutely soundproof, completely private space.
Yet even that couldn't calm the chaos of his pheromones. They still raged uncontrollably inside him, searching desperately for an outlet.
He suddenly straightened up, staggering toward the small private suite connected to the study. It was equipped with top-of-the-line medical monitoring and emergency treatment devices. One silver-gray metal cabinet contained high-concentration Alpha suppressants and stabilizers.
His steps were almost unsteady; the edges of his vision began to warp slightly, flecked with subtle distortions and light spots—a clear sign of severe pheromone imbalance. He yanked open the cabinet, grabbed a pre-filled syringe without hesitation, tore open the fabric of his collar, and drove the icy needle directly into the vein on the side of his neck.
The ice-blue liquid flowed rapidly into his bloodstream.
Almost immediately, a powerful, freezing effect—enough to knock out an ordinary Alpha—swept through him like a tidal wave, forcibly suppressing the raging torrent of pheromones. Kane let out an even more pained groan; his body trembled violently, and he had to grip the cold metal cabinet just to stay upright.
Large beads of cold sweat formed on his forehead, sliding down the taut lines of his face. Inside him, ice and fire waged a furious battle, delivering pain beyond ordinary comprehension. Yet he clenched his teeth, and his gray-blue eyes, bloodshot from the extreme strain and sheer willpower, still gleamed with a chilling, unyielding light.
He would not allow himself to lose control.
Not ever.
Several long minutes passed. Gradually, the drug's effect took hold. The violent wave of pheromones was forcibly subdued, smoothed into calm. His heavy breathing began to stabilize, though still rapid, no longer on the verge of eruption. The oppressive scent of his pheromones remained, thick and potent, yet returned to its usual cold, commanding character—denser than normal, like the sky lingering in gloom after a storm.
He withdrew the syringe, casually tossed it into the medical waste disposal slot, and wiped a single drop of blood from the injection site with his fingertip. Moving to the sink, he splashed cold water repeatedly on his face, attempting to wash away the last vestiges of agitation and exhaustion.
Raising his head, the mirror reflected a face still strikingly handsome, yet hardened with coldness and absolute control. Water droplets traced down his jawline; the redness in his eyes had not fully faded, but the terrible storm had already been forcibly locked away in the deepest confines of his mind.
He straightened his slightly disheveled shirt, fastened new cufflinks with meticulous precision, as if the man who had almost lost control moments ago had been nothing but a phantom. Only the faintly pale complexion and the subtle, smoldering embers in the depths of his eyes hinted at the terrifying ordeal he had just endured.
He stepped out of the private suite and returned to the main area of the study, his gaze falling on the light-screen atop the desk, silently displaying the live feed from the "Silence" suite.
On the screen, Isabella was still curled up on the sofa, hugging her knees and burying her face. Her slight, trembling shoulders betrayed the quiet sobs she tried to hide, while the tablet lay discarded to one side.
Alexander watched in silence, his expression unreadable. Only in the depths of his gray-blue eyes flickered a trace of something complex, elusive—was it irritation? Regret? Or a deeper, indefinable sense of possessive satisfaction even he could not name?
He manipulated the light-screen, pulling up the complete operation logs of Isabella's use of the tablet over the past hour. Streams of icy code and data scrolled rapidly.
His gaze was sharp as a hawk's, scanning every action: the seemingly clumsy orbital deviations, parameter errors, and non-optimal path selections—all laid bare before him.
Unconsciously, his fingers tapped a steady rhythm on the desktop.
Minutes later, the tapping ceased.
The log revealed that all anomalous operations had occurred within the specific deep-space simulation software he had provided. These "errors," though appearing random, subtly exhibited a… deliberate, low-level repetitive pattern.
Coincidence?
Or…
A faintly chilling curve tugged at the corners of his mouth.
Indeed, his canary had never truly been compliant. Even with her wings clipped and locked atop the glass tower, her clever, untimely mind never ceased probing for loopholes.
She was using this extremely subtle method to respond to the abnormal signal from the deep-space network? Did she really think she could hide it from him?
Foolish, yet… predictable.
He even felt a strangely absurd sense of "gratification." If she had simply gone numb and accepted her fate, it would have been… boring.
He did not act immediately. Instead, he encrypted the operation logs and filed them as a top-priority monitoring item.
Then, he opened another interface and connected to David's communication channel.
"Sir," David's calm voice came through, as if unaware of any disturbance at the top level.
"Increase the biological monitoring frequency in the 'Silence' suite—especially pheromone fluctuations and stress hormone levels. Report any subtle changes in real time," Kane said, his tone cold and steel-like, betraying no trace of the recent loss of control.
"Understood."
"Additionally," Kane paused, his gaze once again sweeping over the slender figure trembling slightly on the surveillance screen, "tonight's meal, add a double dose of the calming component, make sure she 'rests well.'"
"Yes, sir."
Ending the communication, Kane leaned back in the chair, closed his eyes, and rubbed at his brow with his fingers. The side effects of the strong suppressant began to surface, bringing waves of deep fatigue and a cold emptiness, but his formidable willpower immediately forced them down.
When he reopened his eyes, the depths of them were already like an unfathomable frozen lake, every trace of emotion perfectly concealed.
A sudden storm seemed to have subsided.
But the eye of the storm had become deeper, colder, and absolutely controlled.
He picked up another electronic document awaiting his attention, his gaze settling on it as though nothing had just occurred.
Only, beside that encrypted operation log, a brand-new task labeled "Deep Space Network Anomaly Trace - Highest Authority" had been silently created and activated.