Mikael Graves

The door gave way with a bang under the pressure of his shoulder, the wooden jamb cracked with a plaintive creak. The clang of the lock bouncing off the wall sounded to Mikael like the final chord before an easy prey. The air in the hallway smelled of dust and loneliness—the standard smell of apartments where people live alone. No smell of another alpha, or even a beta neighbor. Perfect.

"Quiet and well—groomed, as promised by the summary," flashed through his mind as he quickly, with practiced movements, locked the broken door from the inside. His alpha self, accustomed to the adrenaline rush during the raids, was calm and focused. He was already mentally calculating possible valuables: machinery, money, maybe jewelry.

But then his nostrils, accustomed to detecting threats by scent, caught something else. Not the smell of fear, not aggression. Something subtle, bittersweet, like fading flowers. And... metal. Rust and copper. A familiar, disturbing smell.

Instinct made him freeze, listen. There was no sound except for the intrusive ticking of the clock in the living room. But this fragrance led him, like Ariadne's thread, down a short corridor. It was coming from under the bathroom door. From under the crack in the floor, a faint light and the same sweet-metallic smell seeped out, which now gave off a hint of anxiety in the sky.

Mikael approached noiselessly, put his palm on the cold hardware. He was no longer waiting for an ambush. His inner beast, which had been ready for a fight a moment ago, was now alert for another reason. It was the smell of despair.

With one sharp movement, he flung open the door.

For a moment, the sight that greeted him unsettled even him, who had seen everything. The tub was filled to the brim with pinkish water. A guy was sitting on the white tile against the wall, leaning his head against the cold surface. His face was pale, almost transparent, and his eyes, huge and empty, stared at nothing without blinking. One of his hands was resting on the side of the tub, palm up, and a red trickle was oozing out of his wrist, slowly dripping into the water. There was a razor on the floor.

But that wasn't the most shocking thing. The very first breath in this cramped room hit Mikael in the brain with the force of a physical blow. Smell. That same fading flower, mixed with the purity of soap and the bitter dust of the void. It was the smell of omega. Not just omegas, but omegas in the deepest anguish, on the verge. His alpha instincts, which had always demanded dominance and control, howled in contradiction. This was not a threat, not a prey. In front of him was a kinsman, albeit a lower one in the hierarchy, who was bleeding not only with blood, but also with hope.

Damn it, Blomkvist thought, pushing out all thoughts of money and jewelry. His initial goal —to clean out the apartment—suddenly seemed petty and vulgar. Another, more ancient instinct, the instinct of the defender, forced him to take a step forward.

—Hey," his voice, usually rough and commanding, sounded strangely muffled, almost breaking. "What are you doing here?"

Mikael, without taking his eyes off him, quickly found a box of Band-aids and bandages in the cabinet above the sink. His fingers, accustomed to breaking and taking, were now acting with unusual caution. He knelt on the wet floor, his large frame blocking out the light.

Be quiet, he told himself. "Don't scare me off." He gently took the guy's cold, limp hand. Touching the fragile wrist, on which a ruthless line gaped, made his own heart clench. He applied a pressure bandage, his movements were sharp but precise. There was only one thing pounding in my head: Stop the bleeding. The main thing now is to stop the bleeding. And everything else... everything else is later."