My Alphas' Dark Desires

Chapter 387 387: Let's Do a Ritual

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~Valerie's POV~

Dominic's lazy smirk stayed as he loosened his tie. The room smelled faintly of lemon polish and something sharper beneath it, like a metal edge that made the back of his neck prickle.

He let the smirk hang there like a shield.

"You are not scared?" Storm asked in a flat voice.

Dominic glanced over, narrowing his eyes. "Why should I be when you broke into my house and my room?" He let the question sit like a challenge.

"Shouldn't that mean you should be scared?" Storm countered.

"No. The question is, are you scared?" Dominic tossed back.

"No. But I have a proposition for you." Storm's tone didn't change.

Dominic's hand paused at his phone. "I'm not interested."

Storm pushed himself up from the chair, easily. When he walked toward Dominic, the black he wore looked like a smear of night: fitted jacket, dark trousers, boots that made no sound on the rug.

A black nose mask covered his lower face; blond hair fell over his eyes until, at the last step, he brushed it aside. His gaze was flat and cold like an animal assessing a rival.

"It's important," Storm said.

Dominic's amusement cracked. "Important enough to break into my mansion?"

Storm didn't answer with words. He stopped three paces away and simply looked at him. "Yes. And even if you are not interested… I'm going to tell you anyway."

"If you're going to tell me, why did you ask if I wanted to know?" Dominic said, pulling the phone back out. "Or should I call security and end this little charade?"

Storm's lips twitched. "Then if you do so, how will you know you're going to get killed?"

Dominic's fingers hovered over the screen as he typed a name. He looked up slowly. "I get that a lot. Putting you behind bars will at least slow you down."

"Then I'll let them kill you," Storm said softly.

The tension was thick in the air. Dominic's expression remained calm, but his jaw tightened slightly. He had the patience of a predator, ready to bide his time for a better opportunity.

Yet, a flicker of doubt slipped in, making his confident smirk fade a bit. "If you were the one sent to kill me, just do it already."

Storm stepped forward again. "I am not the one who wants you dead. Though I'll be killing you."

Dominic's brows rose. "Uhn…"

"I'm here to save you by arranging your death." The words were blunt. They landed like a stone.

Dominic let out a sharp laugh that didn't quite sound genuine. He took off his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair, almost like he was getting ready for a game. "Then you're going to die," he said.

Storm snorted. "No. I do not want to kill you. I need your agreement."

"Agreement to what?" Dominic snapped.

"To a ritual," Storm said. "A staged death that convinces the right people."

Dominic's smile twisted into something threatening. Before Storm could finish his sentence, Dominic sprang into action, like someone who was used to getting his way.

He closed the gap between them in an instant, slamming his shoulder into Storm's chest and reaching for his throat.

Storm didn't flinch; he met Dominic's momentum with a step sideways. As Dominic reached out in a frantic attempt to get a grip, Storm's forearm intercepted his wrist, acting like a solid barrier that redirected the attack.

They moved like two wolves circling each other, ready to strike. Dominic swung his fist with all his might, but Storm dodged just in time, letting the punch miss.

Then, with a swift movement, Storm turned and drove his knee hard into Dominic's stomach. Dominic grunted and stumbled backwards. After a moment, he cursed loudly and charged at Storm again.

The fight was intense, a brutal struggle in a tight space. Dominic fought with wild, clumsy rage, while Storm responded with precise moves. He used holds that neutralized Dominic's leverage and wristlocks that turned Dominic's own strength against him.

At one point, Dominic lunged and slammed his palm into Storm's face. Storm tasted blood—either his own or Dominic's—and for a second, both men paused, breathing heavily.

"Stop this," Storm said between breaths. "You don't get why you should live unless you listen."

Dominic sneered and pushed forward. Storm absorbed the pressure, twisted, and drove his shoulder into Dominic's chest so hard the big man hit the dresser and collapsed.

Storm didn't give him time; he pinned Dominic's shoulders, wrapped a leg around his torso, and slid a cord from his pocket. He bound the hands at Dominic's back with practised knots that left little room for movement.

Dominic struggled against the restraints for a few moments, his face flushed and his chest rising and falling rapidly. But eventually, he seemed to give up. His arms felt heavy, and the intense glare in his eyes faded.

Storm stepped back as Dominic's head drooped. He checked his pulse at the neck and felt it slow and weaken.

Storm stood there, catching his breath as he looked down at the man he had just subdued. The mansion was quiet, except for the sound of their laboured breathing.

He bent down and carefully rolled Dominic onto his side. For a while, he just watched, listening intently, until Dominic's breathing settled into a steady, deep rhythm, indicating he was out cold.

When Dominic opened his eyes again, he was met with darkness, with only a faint glow in the distance. His mouth tasted like metal, and the air felt cool and dry, carrying a hint of stone and damp cloth.

A wave of panic rushed over him as he tried to move, but his wrists were painfully bound. He winced and pulled against the ropes, which pressed harshly into his skin, tied to a ring bolted into the floor.

The next thing he caught was the voices; they were low at first, like whispered words in a language that didn't belong to this world.

As his eyes adjusted, he saw three figures standing in a circle drawn in white chalk, lined with runes that glowed faintly red.

The one in the center, a woman with silver hair that shimmered like a river of starlight, lifted her hands and began to chant louder. Her voice filled the chamber.

"Let the ritual begin," she said, and at once, the energy in the room shifted.

A shiver crept down Dominic's spine. His instinct screamed danger. Every nerve told him to fight, but the ropes had been sealed with some kind of magic. His muscles strained, but they refused to obey.

From the corner of the room, Storm stepped out, looking composed and alert with his mask now off, revealing his defined features and eyes, sharp and full of intent, without any hint of anger.

"You again," Dominic rasped, his throat dry. "You drugged me, tied me up, and now you… What the hell are you doing?"

Storm didn't answer. He simply motioned to the silver-haired witch. "Begin."

Dominic's pulse spiked. "Begin what?"

The witch approached, her long robes brushing the stone floor. She carried something in her hand, a small doll, eerily human in shape, made of pale wax. It wore miniature black trousers and a dark jacket, just like his.

"Your double," she murmured. "Your life's reflection."

Dominic's eyes narrowed. "You've got to be kidding…"

He stopped when she pricked his finger with a silver knife. The sting was small, but what came next made him jolt; his blood didn't just fall; it hissed as it touched the doll's face, sinking into the wax like water into dry soil.

The air thickened instantly. Every candle in the room flickered violently, shadows stretching like claws. The doll began to tremble, its limbs twitching in unnatural movements.

"What is this?" Dominic's voice broke.

Storm stepped closer. "It's the only way to keep you alive. You are supposed to die. So we'll give them what they want… your death."

Dominic shook his head, the ropes digging into his skin. "You expect me to believe this? That witchcraft.."

The witch's chant grew louder, cutting through his words. The markings on the floor blazed crimson. Dominic's chest tightened, and the air around him pulsed as if it were alive.

The doll's eyes suddenly snapped open. They were his eyes: same colour, same spark.

For a horrifying second, Dominic felt a tug deep within his chest, like something being torn free. His body convulsed, his head whipping back as a sharp cry escaped his lips.

And then...

Light.

Blinding, white, searing light.

When the light disappeared, he noticed a figure lying next to the circle. It looked just like him, breathing gently as if he were asleep.

Dominic's breath caught. He stared at himself, his own face, his own body. The witch lowered her hands and murmured, "It is done."

Storm stepped forward, looking down at both versions of him. "You've just been cloned, Dominic. From this point on, the world will believe you're dead."

Dominic blinked hard, still reeling, the metallic taste of blood heavy on his tongue. "And that thing…" he nodded weakly toward the clone, "what happens to it?"

Storm's voice was quiet, almost solemn.

"When the time is right," he said, "it will die… and your soul will return."

Dominic's heart pounded in his chest, but as exhaustion took over, he felt the strange pull again, the connection between him and the double, invisible yet undeniable.

The last thing he heard before darkness claimed him again was the witch's distant voice: "The ritual is complete."