Ch. 67 – The Old-Fashioned Way

"Darius, Shula... why don’t you come on in?" Rhys said, forcing a warm, welcoming smile onto his face to mask the suffocating wave of anxiety crashing over his ribs.

He was stressed immensely—that was an absolute, undeniable fact. The sheer weight of the past forty-eight hours was crushing him, a chaotic mosaic of lingering guilt, hidden lingerie, and elemental stalkers. However, he wasn’t about to treat his longtime friends like enemies on his own front porch, no matter how much this insane, boundary-testing proposal threatened to strain their history.

Darius stepped across the threshold first, offering Rhys a familiar, stoic head nod and a quiet greeting. "Hey, Rhys. Thanks for having us on short notice."

"Of course, man," Rhys replied, stepping back.

Then came Shula. She greeted him in a manner that was uncharacteristically, strikingly affectionate. Without a shred of hesitation or shame, the striking Ifrit woman closed the distance between them, stepping far past normal social boundaries to wrap her arms around Rhys in a deep, lingering embrace.

Rhys stood frozen for a second, caught completely off guard as the intense, exotic fragrance of warm cinnamon, rich vanilla, and faint volcanic ash rolled off her skin, enveloping his senses. Over her shoulder, Rhys couldn't see Darius's face directly in that exact second, but he could practically feel the rigid, stifling discomfort radiating off the high-ranking hero like a blast of cold air.

Luckily, the smooth jazz vinyl was still spinning softly on the turntable, and the amber liquor in the crystal decanter was still perfectly chilled. The house was spotless, bathed in a warm, inviting afternoon light that gave the illusion of absolute domestic harmony. The fact that the home was already in a pristine state helped ease a fraction of Rhys’s internal panic.

Let me get ready for this, Rhys thought grimly, his mind already bowing under a feeling of defeat.

As they moved into the living room and settled around the polished coffee table, Rhys’s brain went into overdrive. He played the dozens with Darius and Shula, exchanging effortless pleasantries and light banter while his internal machinery raced at a terrifying speed. The absolute truth was that Rhys hadn’t actually thought about making a final decision at all. He didn’t want to face it, he didn't want to make the call, and frankly, between hiding secret notes and surviving midnight encounters, he hadn't had a single spare second to process the sheer weight of what they were asking.

Yet, as they made vague, polite conversation about the neighborhood and the weather, Shula kept looking at him. It wasn't a casual look. She stared at him with a dark, smoldering intensity, her golden-amber eyes tracking his every movement, looking for all the world like a woman who was ready to skip the talk and head straight to the master bedroom right then and there.

Wait... it doesn’t even have to be like that! Rhys thought, a violent jolt of sudden relief shooting through his chest.

A bright, sudden lightbulb flashed on in the dark, cluttered attic of his mind. He had been so deeply submerged in the depravity and physical chaos of his life for so long that he had completely forgotten basic modern medicine existed! They didn't need to get physical. They didn't need to touch, or kiss, or cross any sacred marital lines. It was just a scientific procedure—a laboratory donation.

Rhys’s posture visibly relaxed, his shoulders dropping as he actually began to enjoy the rhythm of the conversation. He deliberately convinced himself that the hungry, possessive look in Shula’s eyes wasn't lust at all—it was just the natural, overwhelming excitement of a woman who desperately wanted to be a mother.

He kept the conversation flowing smoothly, cleverly steering the topics from local hero politics to catering logistics, subtly stalling for time. He just needed Lira to walk through that front door. If his wife was by his side, they could navigate this as a united front, gracefully handing down a firm, polite protocol for the medical donation.

Darius and Shula seemed to catch on to his subtle stalling tactics fairly quickly. Out of respect for their shared history, they politely tolerated the side tangents, sipping their chilled drinks and waiting patiently for Lira’s return as well.

However, after the second glass of liquor went down, time could no longer hold the elephant in the room at bay.

Shula set her crystal glass down on the table with a soft, decisive clink. She looked up at Rhys haughtily, her fiery gaze locking onto his as she bluntly cut through the small talk. "Rhys. We're here to see if you've come to a decision."

Rhys held his composure, offering a smooth, easy smile as he decided to play dumb. He was getting alarmingly good at playing face lately—a dark skill honed by necessity.

"Well," Rhys began, taking a slow sip of his drink to buy another three seconds of thought, "it’s a massive thing you guys are asking. A decision like this... it’s a journey."

He decided to take them down a long, winding conversational road. To Rhys’s genuine credit, everything he began saying was completely true this time—a rare, refreshing occurrence that felt almost foreign on his tongue. Up above, the battered angel on his shoulder let out a tired sigh, shaking its head down at him in sad realization: You're still being untruthful in your intent, Rhys.

Because the reality was, Rhys didn't plan on giving them the final answer himself. He just wanted to keep talking in circles until Lira walked through the door to back him up when he laid down the firm boundaries.

Yet, as Rhys began walking them through the internal journey of how a man even approaches a request like this, he actually started processing the decision in real-time, fueled by the smooth alcohol warming his veins.

"I started by talking to Lira," Rhys said softly, his tone earnest as he looked between the couple. "I asked her how she felt about the core concept. And honestly? She told me that if the roles were reversed—if you two were in trouble and needed help to build a family—she would want us to stand up and do it."

Darius visibly shifted in his seat, his jaw clenching tightly as a wave of intense, male discomfort washed over his face. "I would never ask another man for something like that," Darius blustered out, his voice laced with a sudden, defensive edge. "I love Shula. I only love Shula."

Okay, calm down, buddy, Rhys thought with a flicker of smug amusement. Nobody is attacking your ego.

"It's not like that, Darius. I know you, man," Rhys said, his voice dripping with smooth, reassuring warmth. "We were just talking hypothetically, really breaking down what family and loyalty actually mean among people like us."

Shula sat completely silent, but her reaction was the exact opposite of her husband's. She looked oddly, intensely excited as Rhys spoke, her lips slightly parted, her breath hitching in her chest as she drank in his every word. She didn't interrupt; she was entirely rapt in his story. Rhys felt a cold prickle of unease at her expression—she looked like someone watching a cinematic adaptation of a book she had already read and memorized every dirty page of.

Well, I’m about to ruin your movie, Rhys thought bitterly, pressing forward.

"After that," Rhys continued, leaning back in his chair, "I talked to Marcus. He’s a brother to all of us, so I wanted an outside perspective from someone who cares about our circle. And Marcus... well, Marcus was surprisingly straightforward. He said that if he were in my shoes, he'd do it for the greater good of a brother. He told me I should stand up and do it."

Rhys paused, taking a long, deep sip of his drink, finishing the sentence as the cool liquid burned pleasantly down his throat. The high-end liquor was officially fueling his legendary silver tongue now, smoothing out every sharp edge of his delivery.

He set his glass down and looked up, catching Darius staring at him.

Darius’s expression was a painful mix of absolute expectancy and profound, quiet agony—like a man staring down the barrel of a bitter, foul-tasting medicine he knew he desperately needed to swallow for his wife's happiness. Rhys hated that look. He hated seeing a proud, powerful warrior he had fought alongside reduced to looking at him with such heavy, desperate dependency.

And Shula? Shula was practically radiating heat. The sheer, unadulterated vindication rolling off her body was palpable, a waves-of-summer-asphalt kind of heat that made the air in the living room feel suddenly thick.

It’s only going to be a sterile medical injection, right? a voice echoed in Rhys's head. They just need a little sample in a cup. It's a clinical act of charity. Rhys wasn't even sure who was rationalizing it at this point—the angel or the devil.

Rhys glanced toward the front entryway one last time, praying to hear the sound of keys jingling or the front door swinging open.

The door remained stubbornly, silently shut.

Cornered by the heavy silence and the weight of two pairs of eyes burning into him, Rhys stumbled forward into the breach. "Look... I’ve thought about this as much as a man possibly can. That is the honest truth."

He looked directly at Shula, his mouth moving before his brain could put up a final defense.

"And I’ve decided that I’m going to do it. I’ll give you the sample."

The words left his lips before his consciousness could intercept them.

WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?! Rhys screamed hysterically inside the isolated, horrified theater of his own mind. WHAT DID I JUST SAY?!

It turned out the smooth, vintage liquor had hijacked his vocal cords, delivering the path of least resistance just to end the agonizing tension in the room.

In an instant, the living room erupted.

Darius and Shula practically exploded out of their seats in a wave of sheer, overwhelming excitement. Before Rhys could even process the words that had just betrayed him, both of them surged forward, pulling him into a massive, tight group embrace.

"Thank you... oh god, Rhys, thank you!" Shula cried out, her arms wrapping tightly around his neck, her hot cheek pressing against his as she squeezed him with terrifying Ifrit strength.

"You have no idea what this means to us, man," Darius rasped, clapping a heavy, trembling hand onto Rhys's shoulder, his eyes shining with a mixture of immense relief and profound gratitude. "We will do whatever it takes. Anything you need, name it. We'll make this work."

"We need to plan everything right now!" Shula gushed, pulling back just enough to look Rhys in the eyes, her face flushed with a radiant, beautiful excitement. She was talking at a hundred miles an hour before Rhys could even regain his breath or figure out how to walk the statement back. "We need to talk logistics, long-term care, how we handle the day-to-day timeline, and how we keep it discreet from the rest of the neighborhood!"

"Woah, woah, hold on," Rhys stammered, raising his hands defensively, trying desperately to grab the reins of a runaway train. "Let's just slow down for a second—"

"I already checked the calendar!" Shula interrupted, completely ignoring his attempt to pull back, her eyes sparkling with a terrifying, manic efficiency. "My peak cycle starts in three days. We need to figure out what exact times would be perfect for our conjugal meetings!"

Rhys froze. The world around him seemed to screech to a violent, sickening halt.

"What... what do you mean, conjugal?" Rhys asked, his voice dropping an octave, absolute horror and disgust bleeding into his tone.

Shula didn't miss a single beat, casually stepping right past the utter revulsion written across Rhys's face. She leaned in closer, dropping her voice into a smooth, matter-of-fact register as she began going into graphic, uncompromising detail right in front of her husband.

"Well, obviously, we’ll need to schedule regular, private visits during my fertility windows," Shula explained with a serene, terrifyingly confident smile. "It's the only way to guarantee a successful transfer."

Rhys looked over at Darius, expecting the man to explode, to draw a line, to punch him in the face—anything! But Darius stood there completely silent, his eyes fixed on the floorboards like a disciplined, broken soldier executing an order he hated but accepted.

Worst of all, Shula looked all too excited as she laid out the scenario, her eyes scanning Rhys’s broad chest and arms with undisguised hunger.

"No, no, no," Rhys interrupted sharply, his silver tongue completely shattering as panic took over. "Shula, stop. There is absolutely no need for any of that! That wasn't the deal! I can just... use a lab cup! I go into a private medical room, do my business into a sterile container, hand it to a doctor, and I’m done! That’s how this works!"

Shula stopped talking. She looked at Rhys, a slow, cool, devastatingly knowing smile spreading across her bronze lips.

"Oh, Rhys..." Shula purred softly, stepping even closer, her voice laced with a dark, seductive pity. "You don't understand. Because of my pure Ifrit biology, my internal reproductive tract operates at extreme thermal temperatures. A clinical, artificial injection using cold medical tools or preserved samples... it fails instantly. The tissue numbs, the energy dies, and the cellular structure rejects the donor."

She reached out, her warm, slender fingers delicately brushing against the lapel of his shirt, her amber eyes practically undressing him where he stood.

"The magic and the cellular transfer have to be introduced at natural body temperature," she whispered, taking her sweet time with every single word, letting her gaze drop shamelessly down to his belt line. "We have to do it... the old-fashioned way."

Rhys felt as if the floor had just been violently yanked from beneath his feet. He stood there, completely paralyzed, realizing with a sickening, pit-of-the-stomach terror that he had just signed a ironclad contract without reading the fine print.

Dammit! Dammit! DAMMIT! Rhys raged internally, his chest tight as his heart hammered against his ribs. I need to undo this right now! I need to fix this before—

CLICK.

The sound of the front door deadbolt disengaging echoed down the entryway like a gunshot.

Rhys nearly wept with pure, unadulterated relief. The heavy front door swung open, letting in a fresh breeze from the outside world, and Lira stepped into the foyer.

Thank God, Rhys thought, his soul practically ascending. She's home!

"Rhys? Honey, I'm back!" Lira called out warmly, setting her keys on the side table.

Rhys took a step toward the hallway, ready to throw himself at his wife's feet and let her dismantle this insanity once and for all. But as Lira rounded the corner into the living room, Rhys’s relief instantly curdled into a fresh, horrifying nightmare.

Lira wasn't alone.

Stepping into the living room right behind his wife were two unexpected guests.

It was Marcus, looking mildly uncomfortable in a sharp jacket... and walking arm-in-arm beside him, looking like an absolute vision of lethal, dark elegance, was Vespera.

The new "couple" had officially arrived.