Aftermath of guilt

I'm continuing along a parallel narrative path to MonsterInNeed's work. He handled the scientific aspects of the story exceptionally well, so rather than retreading that ground, my focus will shift toward exploring a darker, more psychologically driven storyline—one that delves into interpersonal dynamics, internal fears, and the consequences of moral compromise.

Where Monster's arc leans toward redemption, mine will likely veer in the opposite direction, examining the less savory aspects of human nature. I won’t be exploring the cure storyline in depth, as Monster has already done that with great skill. Instead, it will remain in the background, serving primarily to support the progression of my alternate arc.

~ Gabriel

Gabriel sat at his desk, head in his hands.

What had he done?

He had kept his distance from Wendy ever since she returned with Cedric—ever since Cedric’s betrayal. But was that fair? Would he have preferred it if some random man had claimed her instead?

Everything he had learned since Claim Day pointed to one unshakable truth: once owned, a woman would stop at nothing to serve her owner. Wendy, stubborn and strong as she was, would have fought tooth and nail to follow whoever claimed her—to go with him, to serve him. If it hadn’t been Cedric, then some stranger would have taken her. And right now, she would be in that stranger’s house—writhing in his bed, bent over his sofa.

The images made Gabriel sick to his stomach.

Why did she have to be in town when this horror began? Why couldn’t they have been at home, alone? He would have claimed her himself—disgusting as the idea seemed—but at least it would have been to protect her. They could have maintained the illusion of normalcy while he worked with the others to find a cure.

It felt like a calculated cruelty that The Source had triggered the claiming in the middle of the day—precisely when families were scattered, when people were least able to protect one another. Perhaps that had been the point—not just to begin a grotesque, misogynistic regime, but to shatter the foundations of society from the start.

Would it have been different if the claiming had begun at night? Could the scientific teams have stayed intact? Could they have saved more people? Or would everyone have faded into their own protected spaces, hidden.

Who knows.

Now Wendy was only with him because Cedric allowed it—and that fact, that humiliating truth, was what had pushed Gabriel over the edge just moments ago. It was what had driven him to try to dominate her, to reassert control in the only pathetic way he could. The shame of it clung to him like sweat.

The idea that Cedric was pitying him—offering Wendy like some act of charity, a token gesture to soothe his pride—was unbearable. Gabriel had snapped. He had tried to get Wendy to tell him she still belonged to him, as if hearing the words might dull the pain. But why? He knew better than most that Claimed women belonged wholly and irrevocably to their owners. It wasn’t just emotional. It was chemical. Absolute.

He had seen the interviews with the behavioral scientists at the Institute. He had spoken at length with his own Claimed women. In these early days of The Claiming, they were cautious in their speech—careful not to fully articulate the extent of their transformation. There was still too much shame in the air among many of the owners, too much lingering humanity in the men around them. The women pulled their punches out of concern for the decent men who had claimed them, the ones still clinging to their morals and boundaries. It wasn’t time yet to reveal the depths of their devotion.

But how long would those morals last?

Gabriel knew what the research showed. The pressure was mounting—relentless, intimate, persuasive. Claimed women were endlessly eager to serve, and not just in abstract ways. They were willing—determined—to do anything their owners desired. Absolutely anything. And eventually, even the most resistant men would begin to yield.

No Claimed woman could lie to her owner. Not one. If asked directly, she would divulge any secret, admit any emotion, expose any truth. And if ordered—commanded —she would obey without hesitation.

Gabriel knew, deep in his bones, that if Cedric told Wendy to slit his throat… she would. Not with tears, not with hesitation. She would do it eagerly. Lovingly, even. Without remorse. Without regret.

He shivered.

A wave of nausea rolled through him, violent and sudden. He vomited across his desk, bile and shame mixing in equal measure.

He couldn’t bear it. He couldn’t stand the thought of losing Wendy this way—even to a man he once called a friend.

Had Cedric truly resisted claiming her as they had claimed? Had it really been some heat-of-the-moment accident, as they claimed? Or had he seized the opportunity the second it presented itself—grasped her hand and spoken the words enthusiastically?

Had they already slept together? Where they together now?

Were they mocking him behind his back, whispering about their new joyous relationship?

Would Wendy hate him for what he had just done if… no when they discovered a cure?

The questions swarmed his mind, each more corrosive than the last.

And the bile rose again.

As if summoned by the sound of his retching, Alva burst into the room, her voice sharp with panic.

“Gabriel!”

She crossed the floor in a flash, dropping to his side. “Are you alright?” she cried, her hands already moving—checking his forehead for fever, loosening the top buttons of his shirt as he struggled to sit upright. Without waiting for a reply, she darted to the sink, soaked a towel with cold water, grabbed a bottle from the mini-fridge, and returned to him with practiced efficiency.

She pressed the damp cloth to his forehead, her touch gentle but firm. Then she opened the bottle and urged it into his hands. “Drink,” she said softly, her voice more composed now but still lined with concern.

“I’m fine,” Gabriel insisted weakly, waving her off. “It’s just… the stress. Everything.”

But Alva wasn’t listening to reassurances. She had already turned her attention to the mess on his desk, carefully salvaging what papers she could and discarding the ones beyond saving. She moved with quiet competence, cleaning the space without fuss or complaint.

Gabriel watched her. He had known Alva for years—his assistant, his right hand. Dependable. Organized. Always professional.

But now… now he really saw her.

She was beautiful, in a grounded, natural way. Slim, with elegant curves, large eyes, ample breasts, soft chestnut hair cropped just above her shoulders. Not ethereal like Wendy—Wendy had always looked like she belonged in another world—but Alva was radiant in her own way. And she cared. Not out of obligation, not from the insistence of her true owner. Her care seemed real. Seemed genuine. Unshakable. Well, he knew she had cared before The Claiming. Had been a friend. A confidant.

There was a new energy in her now. A deeper intensity. A quiet devotion in the way she moved, the way she looked at him—as if he were the only thing in the world that mattered.

She felt his gaze and looked up, catching him in the middle of his thoughts. She straightened slightly, then softened as her eyes met his.

“Gabriel,” she said gently, her voice full of concern, “you’re working too hard. You’re carrying too much alone.”

She stepped toward him with quiet grace, every motion fluid, feminine.

“You need to let me help,” she said. “Let me take some of the weight.”

She laid a hand on his shoulder—light, deliberate. The touch sent an electric jolt through him. There had never been contact like this between them before.

“What can I do?” she asked, kneeling beside him now, her eyes searching his face. “Tell me how I can help. I’ll do anything. Anything at all, Gabriel.”

Her presence was overwhelming. He could smell her—a soft, clean scent with a hint of floral perfume. It wasn’t overpowering. It was comforting. Intimate.

He turned away, **** back a sob.

“It’s Wendy,” he whispered, the words catching in his throat. “I feel like… like I’ve already lost her.”

Alva moved her hand gently to his thigh, her eyes filled with warmth, with something more than sympathy—devotion. Real and terrifying.

“You haven’t lost her,” she said softly. “You’ll figure this out. You’ll fix it. I know you will.”

Her presence calmed him and stirred something else beneath the surface. Her hand rested gently on his leg, and as his body responded, his manhood stiffened. She noticed. But instead of recoiling, she smiled—gently, knowingly. And then her hand slid higher, coming to rest softly against his growing need.

She met his eyes, eager, unafraid. There was no shame in her. No hesitation.

He almost leaned into her.

Almost.

Instead, he pushed back in his chair, putting distance between them. Alva’s hand slipped back to his thigh, but the look in her eyes didn’t change. She wasn’t embarrassed. She wasn’t hurt. She only wanted him to understand.

She was his. Available. Willing. Always.

He rolled farther back. Her hand dropped.

“Thank you, Alva,” he murmured. “For everything.”

She stood slowly, gracefully. “Of course, Gabriel,” she said with a soft smile. “I’ll do anything for you. You only have to ask... or allow.”

With that, she turned and walked out of his office, her hips swaying with quiet confidence.

Gabriel stared after her, spiraling.

Is this how it starts? he wondered.

How would the decent men of the world resist this?

How could anyone resist?

He reached for the whiskey bottle, poured a generous shot, and tossed it back, hoping to wash away the taste of bile that still clung to the back of his throat.

He buried his head in his hands once more.

Was Wendy comforting Cedric right now? Whispering to him, promising anything? Everything?

He sobbed again.