Even In Your Death

"LET GO OF ME!"

Lloyd's scream tore through the rain as he struggled against the hands restraining him, his knees scraping against the rough concrete. He managed to wrench one arm free and push himself upwards, but before he could get to his feet, a heavy hand struck him across the face.

The blow sent him sprawling sideways.

Pain exploded through his cheek. For several seconds, he could only lie there, stunned, with rainwater running into his open mouth.

The metallic taste of blood spread across his tongue. He tried to spit it out, only to wince when the movement pulled at his split lip.

"Stay the fuck down," one of the men warned.

Lloyd barely heard him.

His attention remained fixed on the house behind them, its front door hanging open beneath the porch light.

From where he lay, he could still see part of the narrow hallway he'd walked through less than an hour ago, carrying his university bag and wondering why the house was unusually quiet.

He wished he'd never opened that bedroom door.

Wished he'd gone straight to his room, stopped somewhere on his way home, or done any of the hundred other things that might have delayed his arrival.

Because then, perhaps, he wouldn't have found his father lying motionless on the bedroom floor, surrounded by empty bottles and the unmistakable evidence of another overdose and perhaps these men wouldn't have arrived shortly afterwards, demanding money from a dead man.

A car door slammed.

Lloyd turned towards the sound, blinking through the rain clinging to his eyelashes.

A black luxury vehicle stood a few metres away, its headlights illuminating the downpour.

A man stepped out of the rear passenger seat, adjusting the cuffs of his expensive coat before accepting the shelter of an umbrella held out by one of his companions.

He appeared to be in his late fifties, with greying hair combed neatly backwards and a broad, well-fed face that suggested he hadn't worried about the price of a meal in decades. A thick gold ring adorned one finger, while his polished leather shoes looked absurdly out of place against the muddy pavement.

He surveyed the scene with mild interest.

"Well, well. What's all this noise?"

"Boss, the little bastard's refusing to cooperate," one of the men explained, tightening his grip on Lloyd's arm.

"I can see that." The older man approached at an unhurried pace, only to stop when muddy water splashed near his shoe. "Careful with the bloody umbrella!" he snapped at the man following him. "Do you want me soaked?"

"Sorry, boss."

The two men dragged Lloyd upright, forcing him back onto his knees. His trousers were soaked through, and the cold had begun settling painfully into his joints.

He tried to pull away, but one of them seized his jaw and forced his face upwards. "Look at the boss when he's talking to you."

Lloyd glared at him.

The older man stopped directly in front of him. His eyebrows shot up. "Ay!" He recoiled theatrically, clutching his chest as though he'd encountered something terrifying.

"So scary!" he exclaimed, pretending to shiver. "That look! My goodness, that look could certainly kill someone!"

His men chuckled.

Lloyd didn't.

Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, mixing with the rainwater dripping from his chin. His cheek throbbed, and the fingers digging into his jaw were beginning to hurt, but he refused to lower his eyes.

The man seemed delighted.

"Look at him." He leaned closer. "Such a frightening little face." He tilted his head, studying Lloyd with an interest that made his stomach tighten.

"Hmm. Not bad. Not bad at all." A thick finger caught Lloyd beneath the chin, turning his face slightly to the left.

The man examined his features as though inspecting merchandise, his gaze travelling from Lloyd's eyes to his nose before lingering on his mouth.

"A face to kill for," he murmured appreciatively. "And a face that could certainly make money."

Lloyd jerked away.

The man's smile widened. "Ah, there's that temper again." He patted Lloyd's injured cheek twice, seemingly unconcerned when the second tap made him flinch. "You'll make me lots of money, won't you, Lloyd?"

Something about the way he said his name made Lloyd's skin crawl.

He didn't recognise this man. He'd never seen him before today, and until these strangers arrived at his doorstep, he hadn't even known his father owed anyone money.

Yet here he stood, speaking with the familiarity of someone who already knew exactly what he intended to do with him.

Lloyd swallowed, struggling to steady his breathing. "Why are you holding me?" he demanded, his voice hoarse from shouting. "I haven't done anything to you."

The man stared at him, then he laughed. It began as a short, incredulous chuckle before growing considerably louder.

"Did you hear that?" He turned towards his men, spreading his arms. "Can you hear him? Ah! Bwahahaha!"

His laughter rang out over the rain, accompanied by the obedient amusement of the men surrounding him.

Lloyd watched in disbelief as the older man straightened, planted both hands on his hips and continued laughing as though he'd heard the funniest joke of his life.

What the hell was so funny?

His father was dead. There was blood in his mouth, and three complete strangers were holding him captive outside his own home.

Eventually, the man wiped at the corner of one eye. "Oh, you poor, stupid boy." He reached inside his coat and withdrew a folded document, taking care to keep it beneath the umbrella as he opened it. "Here. Since you're so convinced you've done nothing wrong, perhaps this will refresh your memory." He held the paper in front of Lloyd's face.

Lloyd struggled to focus on the printed paragraphs through the rain and the hand still gripping his jaw. There were names. Dates. Several signatures.

And a figure that made his stomach drop.

£250,000.

"Your omega trash of a father owes me two hundred and fifty thousand pounds," the man announced, tapping the document. "Two hundred and fifty thousand! And you have the nerve to sit there asking what you've done?"

Lloyd stared at the amount. Surely he'd read it incorrectly. Two hundred and fifty thousand pounds?

His father?

The same man who regularly complained about not having enough money for electricity? Who spent whatever little he earned on alcohol and drugs, then cursed the entire world when there was nothing left?

Where could he possibly have spent that much money?

Lloyd glanced towards the house. The porch light flickered faintly, illuminating the rain falling from the edge of the roof. His father was still inside.

Dead.

The thought should have brought something with it. Grief, perhaps. Shock. Some overwhelming sadness at the realisation that the man who'd raised him would never speak again.

Instead, Lloyd felt strangely hollow. He'd spent so many years wishing his father would leave him alone that he hadn't known what to feel when the man finally stopped breathing. But whatever complicated feelings awaited him could wait.

Right now, he needed these people to leave.

"My father's dead," he said, turning back towards the older man. "He's inside the house. You can go and see for yourself."

"I know he's dead."

"Then why are you here?"

The man raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"If he borrowed money from you, that's between you and him." Lloyd's voice trembled despite his efforts to control it. "I didn't borrow anything. I don't even know who you are. What does his debt have to do with me?"

The man's smile vanished for the first time since stepping out of his car, he looked genuinely irritated. "It has every fucking thing to do with you, boy." He thrust the document closer. "First of all, I intend to recover every last penny that worthless bastard borrowed from me. Dead or alive, I don't give a damn. My money doesn't suddenly disappear because some idiot decides to croak."

Lloyd's fingers curled against his thighs.

"Secondly..." The man tapped a section near the bottom of the page. "Your name is right here."

Lloyd frowned. "What?"

"Right here. Written in black and white. Collateral and guarantee." He lowered the paper enough for Lloyd to see. There it was. His full name.

Lloyd stared at it, struggling to make sense of what he was seeing. "That's not possible."

"Oh?"

"I never signed anything."

"Did I say you did?"

Lloyd looked up sharply.

The man smiled again. "Your father signed it. Apparently, he was quite confident his precious alpha son would be capable of settling his debts if anything happened to him."

For several seconds, Lloyd couldn't speak. He looked back at the document, hoping he'd misunderstood. But the name remained there. His name.

His father's signature. A debt he hadn't even known existed.

"Kid," the man continued conversationally, "you do know what a guarantee is, don't you? After all, you're a university student. Surely they teach you something useful at that expensive school of yours."

Lloyd barely registered the insult. His thoughts had returned to the bedroom. To his father's lifeless body. The empty bottles scattered across the floor.

He remembered coming home every day to find the man drunk on the sofa, cursing him for wasting money on an education. The arguments whenever he needed money for textbooks. The accusations that he thought himself better than everyone simply because he was an alpha.

And now this.

Even in death, his father had found another way to ruin his life.

"No," Lloyd whispered. The man tilted his head. "I didn't agree to this."

"That's unfortunate."

"You can't just—" Lloyd struggled against the hands restraining him. "You can't hold me responsible for something I didn't know about!"

The older man's expression hardened. "Listen carefully, boy. I didn't come all the way here in this disgusting weather to discuss fairness with you." He crouched slightly, bringing their faces closer. "Your father borrowed my money. Your father failed to pay it back. And your father conveniently dropped dead before I could collect it."

His breath smelled faintly of tobacco. "Now, I could waste my time crying over that unfortunate development, or I could collect what belongs to me."

Lloyd's pulse hammered in his ears. "I don't have that kind of money."

"I know."

"I'm still studying. I don't even have a job."

"I know that too."

"Then what do you expect me to do?"

The man regarded him for a moment before his gaze travelled over Lloyd's face again. That same appraising expression returned.

"Oh, don't worry about that," he said pleasantly. "I've already thought of something."

Unease twisted Lloyd's stomach. He didn't like that smile. Or the way the others were looking at him, as though they knew something he didn't. "What are you talking about?"

The man ignored him. He straightened, brushed an imaginary speck of dirt from his coat and turned towards his men. "Take him."

Lloyd froze. The hands gripping his arms tightened. "Wait!" The men hauled him to his feet. "Wait, where are you taking me?"

"Move!"

"No! Let go of me!"

He planted his feet against the wet pavement, fighting to wrench himself free. One of the men cursed as Lloyd nearly slipped from his grasp, while the other twisted his arm behind his back.

Pain shot through his shoulder.

"Stop fighting, you little shit!"

"LET ME GO!" His voice cracked. He looked desperately towards the house, the open front door and the familiar windows beyond it. His university bag was still lying inside. His shoes were beside the stairs. His father's body was upstairs, waiting for someone to come and take it away.

Everything had happened so quickly that Lloyd hadn't even had time to understand what he was supposed to do next and now these men were dragging him towards a car.

"Please!" he shouted, panic finally overwhelming his attempts to remain composed. "I haven't done anything! I don't owe you anything!"

Nobody listened.

His shoes scraped against the pavement as they pulled him forwards, rainwater splashing around their feet. He grabbed at the car door when they forced it open, but one of the men struck his hand away.

"Get inside!"

"No, please, just listen—"

A violent shove sent him stumbling into the back seat. Before he could recover, another man climbed in beside him and seized his wrist while the door slammed shut.

Lloyd lunged towards the handle.

"Don't even think about it." The man yanked him back.

Through the rain-streaked window, Lloyd watched the older man approach the vehicle. The subordinate carrying the umbrella followed closely behind, looking considerably less amused than his employer.

He glanced towards the back seat, where Lloyd was still struggling against his captor.

"What a pity," he murmured.

The older man paused. "Hmm?"

"That boy." The subordinate shook his head. "He's so young. To be reduced to something like this..." His gaze lingered on Lloyd. "And an alpha, no less. That's even sadder."

The older man turned towards him, for a moment, only the rain hammering against the umbrella could be heard, then his employer scoffed.

"Who the fuck cares?"

The subordinate stiffened. "Boss, I only meant—"

"Alpha, omega, beta, or God himself!" the man snapped, throwing one hand into the air. "Do I look like I give a damn what he is?"

"No, boss."

"Then stop talking rubbish!" He jabbed a finger towards the car. "That little bastard had better start singing some pretty music and making my money back. Two hundred and fifty thousand pounds doesn't grow on bloody trees!"

"Of course, boss."

"Rubbish," he muttered, shaking his head as he climbed into the vehicle.

The umbrella disappeared.

A moment later, the doors shut, sealing Lloyd inside with the smell of expensive leather, damp clothing and unfamiliar alpha pheromones. He pressed himself against the window, struggling to steady his breathing.

Outside, the house seemed smaller than it had a few minutes ago. The porch light was still on. Rain poured from the roof. And for one strange, terrible moment, Lloyd remembered sitting beside that same front door as a child, listening for his father's footsteps.

Back then, he'd prayed for the man to stay away.

Tonight, with his father finally dead, he was being taken somewhere he didn't know, by people who wouldn't tell him what they intended to do with him.

His throat tightened. "Please," he whispered to the man beside him. "I need to go back."

No answer.

"My father is still in there. He needs... I need to—"

"Shut up."

"Someone needs to—"

"I said shut up."

Lloyd lowered his gaze.

His injured lip throbbed. His clothes clung uncomfortably to his skin, and he couldn't stop trembling, though he wasn't sure whether it was from the cold or the fear spreading through his chest.

He tried to think. Perhaps he could contact the police. Perhaps someone at the university could help him.

Phil.

He could call Phil.

But his phone was in his bag, and his bag was still inside the house.

Lloyd slowly raised his head. "Where are you taking me?"

The man beside him stared straight ahead. Lloyd waited.

"Just tell me where we're going."

The man finally turned. "You'll find out when we get there." he looked away.

Lloyd pressed his lips together, wincing as the cut stung. The engine started. As the car pulled away from the kerb, he twisted around to look through the rear window.

He watched his home disappear behind the curtain of rain, the yellow porch light growing smaller until the vehicle turned a corner. Then there was nothing left to see.

For the first time since finding his father's body, Lloyd began to cry.

Not loudly.

He'd learnt a long time ago that crying loudly only made things worse. He simply bowed his head, allowing the tears to mingle with the rainwater still dripping from his hair, while the stranger beside him stared at his phone.

Somewhere outside, thunder rolled across the sky. Lloyd flinched and the car continued driving.