The silence that followed Dahmer's proposition was a physical weight, a suffocating vacuum that seemed to draw the very oxygen out of the cabin. Malcolm Ford lay pinned against the cold, synthetic padding of the medical berth, his heart hammering a frantic, uneven rhythm against his ribs. The offer hung between them like a shimmering, poisoned blade.
Malcolm's mind was a storm of warring impulses. Every fiber of his Alpha pride recoiled at the thought of surrender. To be laid by a man—to be broken, opened, and claimed by the very entity that had spent weeks systematically dismantling his life—was a nightmare he could barely fathom. And yet, the curiosity was a sickness. He needed to see the face. He needed to know if the "ugly monster" he imagined was real, or if the man who possessed such terrifying, clinical power actually carried a face that matched the haunting authority of his voice.
