Mated to My Fiancé’s Alpha King Brother (Seraphina and Damien) novel Chapter 25

251 Chapter 251

Gabriel’s Perspective

The game controller buzzed faintly in my hands as another enemy on the screen blew apart in a satisfying explosion. The thrill was addictive—so damn satisfying that it almost numbed the rest of the world.

I sank back into the worn, sagging couch, feeling the springs groan beneath my weight. On the grimy floor beside me sat a half-empty bottle of whiskey, surrounded by three crushed beer cans scattered like trophies of my descent.

*Headshot. Critical hit. Victory.*

Those words flashed boldly across the TV screen—the only thing in this dilapidated apartment that looked remotely clean or victorious.

A bitter laugh escaped my lips. I took another long swig of whiskey, letting the burn trail down my throat, momentarily igniting something inside me.

When was the last time I’d felt this calm? This at ease?

Ah, yes. It was back when I first married Valerie. When I believed I had finally won something—something Damien didn’t have.

But that feeling lasted barely three months.

“Fucking bitch,” I muttered under my breath, my thumb hammering the buttons to start another round.

Valerie. My beautiful, worthless wife. She’d run off to join some rogue pack at the border the moment things got tough.

Typical.

They were all the same. Valerie. Sera. Every woman who ever looked at me and saw nothing but Damien’s disappointing little brother.

“Sera,” I spat the name like venom. “Perfect fucking Sera. With her perfect life, perfect kids, perfect Alpha husband.”

I took down enemy after enemy, the body count climbing higher on the screen.

Not high enough. Never high enough.

“And Damien,” I growled, jaw tightening. “Golden boy Damien. Gets everything handed to him. Never had to work for a damn thing. And then he cuts me off like I’m nothing.”

The controller creaked ominously under my grip, the plastic threatening to snap. I forced myself to relax, knowing I couldn’t afford to break this one. I’d already gone through two controllers this month.

My bladder protested loudly—too much beer, too much whiskey, too many hours parked in one spot.

“Fuck.” I hit pause and hauled myself off the couch.

The apartment spun slightly as I stood, not drunk enough to pass out but definitely buzzed enough to feel good.

I stumbled toward the bathroom, my foot catching something soft that squeaked.

A rat.

Fat, brown, and probably carrying every disease imaginable. It darted into the shadows beneath the refrigerator.

I didn’t even flinch anymore. Rats were practically roommates now. This place was infested.

The bathroom door stuck stubbornly; I had to shove it open with my shoulder. The hinges groaned loudly, rusted metal scraping against wood.

I flipped the light switch. The bulb flickered erratically, buzzing like it was on its last legs—probably wouldn’t last another day or two.

I didn’t care.

I relieved myself without bothering to aim properly. The toilet was already filthy; what difference would a little more make?

The sink dripped incessantly—a rhythmic, maddening sound that had been going non-stop since I moved in three weeks ago.

I washed my hands under the cold water. The hot water hadn’t worked in days and probably wouldn’t again.

Then I made the mistake of glancing into the mirror.

My hair hung limp and greasy—the golden blonde that once drew admiring glances now dull and dirty, like straw left out in the rain.

When had I last washed it? A week ago? Two?

A patchy, uneven stubble coated my jaw—not the rugged kind, but the kind that screamed homeless and worn down, making me look a decade older.

Dark circles framed my eyes. My skin was pale, almost gray.

I looked like shit.

I looked exactly like what I was: a failure hiding in a rat-infested apartment, drinking himself into oblivion, waiting on a plan that might never work.

“Emma better come through,” I whispered to my reflection. “This better fucking work.”

Because if it didn’t? If Damien somehow figured everything out? If the whole plan fell apart?

I was screwed. Completely and utterly screwed.

No money. No pack. No family. Just me, the rats, and this shithole until I drank myself into the grave.

The thought made my stomach churn.

I splashed cold water on my face, trying to wake up, trying to look less like a walking corpse.

It didn’t help.

I turned off the light and stumbled back toward the couch, ready to lose myself in another few hours of mindless gaming and drowning my sorrows in alcohol.

Three steps from the couch, a sharp knock echoed at the door.

I froze.

My heart slammed against my ribs, adrenaline slicing through the haze of drunkenness instantly.

Nobody knocked on this door. Nobody knew I was here. That was the whole point.

Another knock came, harder, more urgent.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

Had they found me? Had Damien tracked me down?

I crept toward the door, trying to be as quiet as possible—though the floorboards creaked loudly beneath every step.

The knocking came again: three sharp raps.

I pressed my eye to the peephole. The fisheye lens distorted the dim hallway light, making it hard to see clearly.

But I’d recognize that silhouette anywhere.

How had he figured it out?

“We need to run.” Emma grabbed my arm. “Both of us. Right now. Before he—”

“Wait.” I stopped pacing and looked at her. “Why would you risk coming here? Why not just run yourself?”

She blinked, confused. “What?”

“You could’ve just disappeared,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “Taken the money and run. But instead, you came to warn me. Why?”

“Because we’re in this together,” she said, her voice growing stronger. “Because I’m not leaving you behind. Because we made this plan together, and we’re going to survive it together.”

“Okay.” I pulled her close. “Okay. You’re right. We stick together.”

I kissed her.

Not gently. Not romantically. Just hard, desperate, and probably tasting like whiskey and regret.

She kissed me back, her hands clutching my shirt.

God, I’d missed this. Missed having someone. Missed feeling like I mattered to someone.

Even if that someone was just Emma. Just another person using me for their own plans.

At least she was here. At least she’d come back.

I pulled away slightly, my hands still resting on her waist.

“You’re so fucking smart. So perfect. We’re going to be okay. We’re going to—”

I stopped.

Something was wrong.

A smell. Not Emma’s usual perfume. Something else. Something familiar but I couldn’t place it.

I inhaled deeply, trying to identify it.

That’s when I saw him.

A shadow detached itself from the darkness behind Emma, stepping into the weak glow of my single lamp.

Tall. Broad. Eyes glowing that terrible silver-blue.

Damien.

My brother. The Alpha. The man I’d tried to destroy.

Standing right there in my apartment.

Right behind Emma.

“You fucking bitch,” I started to say.

But Damien was faster.

His hand shot out, wrapping around my throat, squeezing tight.