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Now that he thought about it, there had been plenty of signs there. He had ignored them one by one — no, it wasn't that he ignored them, it was that he hadn't had the energy to give any attention to such trivialities. Yes, trivialities — that was how George had defined those clues at the time. If he had lingered just a little longer, perhaps things would not have become as terrible as they were now.
But it could not really be blamed on him. Back then he had been immersed in love. He and Carlos had only recently become engaged, and they had already decided to move the wedding forward. Living in a lively neighborhood also meant people came and went quickly, so when they saw a moving company at the house across the street, they were not surprised.
And yet he could not help thinking: if he had stood there just a little longer, perhaps he would have seen the man's face and stopped all of this.
But no. He had not. That was the first mistake George made — the first clue he ignored.
The second clue he overlooked came during his daily morning run: the group of retired elders he passed every day. Every morning, without fail, they power-walked through the community — though not very effectively. More often they simply gathered to gossip. George did not really want to join them, but he and Carlos were foreigners after all, and he did not want to offend the HOA managers. Each time he passed, he slowed down and chatted a little.
And those elders — most of them Betas — were happy to talk with him. Though this was Los Angeles and attractive Omegas were not rare, someone as beautiful as George still stood out. When he and Carlos moved in, it had even caused a small commotion; people thought some unknown European celebrity had arrived.
"Oh, Mrs. Sainz, perfect timing. We were just discussing the new resident," the leader told him. "You probably don't know — that house has always been… strange. The realtor must have said something vague to trick him."
George bared his teeth slightly inside at the title. He had once been someone's spouse for years, yet he still could not get used to hearing himself called that — especially when he and Carlos were only engaged. He told himself it was merely an outdated habit these old-fashioned gentlemen still clung to.
"Strange? What does that mean?" It was the first time George had heard anything about the house. He only knew no one had lived there for a long time.
Another person stopped the leader, signaling him not to continue. "It's nothing serious. Mostly coincidences."
"The European man didn't ask many questions either. Hardly any luggage — nothing like when you and your fiancé moved in. Just a few boxes and three cats," the leader said. "Maybe you'll become friends. Frank, or Franz — from Belgium or the Netherlands, they say. George, have you ever been there before?"
George's throat tightened suddenly. He shook his head. "No."
Then he left quickly.
The third clue? A cat.
It happened fast. After work, just as he was about to turn into his driveway, a cat ran out and sat in the middle of the road. Pale green eyes stared straight at him; leopard-like markings on its back made him momentarily dazed. The cat seemed to call out — a familiar sound — and he slammed the brakes.
But under the furious honking behind him, he blinked. There was no cat on the road. He told himself it was stress-induced hallucination. The doormat at the entrance was crooked, dirt smeared along the edge of the step. He straightened it before unlocking the door.
"I'm home, babe," he called.
Footsteps approached. He smelled his Alpha — ginger mixed with sage — and smiled involuntarily. Even his scent alone could warm him. Carlos wore a pink polka-dot apron; with a headscarf he would have looked like an adorable maid.
Carlos walked over, lifted George, and spun him once. George cried out in surprise, then they laughed together. He cupped Carlos's face and kissed his cheek.
"Only the cheek, Georgie?" Carlos asked, his accent making it sound closer to "Josie," looking at him with wide hopeful eyes. George had never been able to resist that innocent puppy expression and generously kissed his lips too.
They had lived in California for over half a year, and the engagement followed soon after. In truth, they had dated in Madrid for more than two years — over three years since they first met. Carlos had entered George's life after everything had happened and knew nothing of his past. To George, that was perhaps his most perfect quality.
"What are you cooking? It smells amazing," George said as Carlos set him down. Carlos kissed his neck again — but before he could answer, the smoke alarm shrieked from the kitchen.
"Ayyyy, mi olla!" Carlos cried. "Georgie, come help me!"
George laughed and followed him. Even like this, Carlos was endearing. They opened windows to clear the smoke. Carlos stirred the sauce to keep it from burning while George stood on a chair and disabled the alarm. Silence returned — only them.
He sat on the kitchen island. Bay leaves, red wine, and garlic filled the air; the oven hummed — probably brownies he had mentioned casually days earlier.
"Red-wine braised oxtail, with an '18 Priorat, and the chocolate cake you mentioned," Carlos explained. "It'll be a bit longer. Want to rest first?"
"No. I like watching you work," George said seriously. "Just for me."
"Of course — all yours." Carlos turned off the stove and approached, hand sliding onto George's thigh and upward. Heat stirred between their kisses. "But maybe not now. I worked hard on dinner — you should at least taste it."
The oven timer rang.
While Carlos removed the cake, George looked out the window. Their kitchen faced the house across the street. Under dim orange light he could not see clearly, but someone stood there holding the curtain, staring straight at him. The person had blond hair and seemed to be stroking something in his arms — probably a cat.
His throat tightened again. The silhouette was too familiar. He could almost imagine deep-sea blue eyes. The same lifeless, inorganic eyes that once lay on the floor looking up at him while George—
He yanked the curtain shut too abruptly, startling Carlos. "What's wrong, mi amor?" Carlos lifted the curtain slightly.
Nothing was there.
The house across the street looked normal, curtains drawn.
"No. Nothing. Everything's fine."
Everything's fine, he repeated to himself.
They sat at a six-seat wooden table. It had been nearly two weeks since they last had dinner together — Carlos ran a bar twenty minutes away, and George often helped after work.
They discussed wedding details — roughly eight months away. Carlos asked whether George wanted to invite any old friends.
"Your friends are my friends," George said, puzzled.
"No, I mean before our friends. Perhaps friends from the UK?" Carlos said gently.
George's scent turned sour. He gripped his fork, steadied himself, and said, "No. I lost contact after moving to Madrid. Besides, the wedding's here. They probably wouldn't come."
It was a lie. The contact had ended long before that.
Carlos masked his disappointment quickly. "Maybe tomorrow we can attend the new neighbor's housewarming. He visited today."
"You met him?"
"Yes — an Alpha, friendly. Belgian. We could bake cookies?"
"Trust me to help?"
"As long as you don't add pickle juice."
They talked further. Carlos suggested adopting a Labrador so their future pups could grow up with a dog like they had. The word "pups" softened George instantly — and later, in bed, he yielded without resistance.
He embraced his lover. Passion consumed the world. He accepted everything, like the ocean receiving rain. Carlos's gaze — full of devotion — wrapped him in familiar safety. George closed his eyes.
The next morning he felt wrong. His mind refused to start. Carlos embraced him from behind, breathing against the bite mark at his neck gland.
George skipped his run and made coffee. From the kitchen window he saw the neighbor leave — hood up, mask on. He could see nothing. He felt oddly disappointed.
He opened his laptop. The screensaver showed him at the Trevi Fountain, sapphire bracelet shining. He froze. He had not worn it in years — a twenty-first birthday gift from—
He snapped the laptop shut, reopened it, and replaced the image with a photo of him and Carlos at the Bernabéu.
Why was he thinking of the past today?
His heartbeat quickened. Something was approaching. Like a sailor sensing a tsunami beneath calm waters.
Carlos came downstairs yawning and hugged him.
"You said we'd bake cookies."
They danced in the kitchen while baking. Cocoa powder spilled; they laughed. For a moment, his unease disappeared.
When the cookies baked, time slowed. The oven timer ticked twelve minutes. George stared at the dough spreading and changing — irreversible.
Carlos smeared melted chocolate on his lip. George tasted it. Sweet — too sweet. Someone once liked this flavor. He swallowed memory and discomfort together.
They boxed the cookies and walked to the neighbor's house.
They rang the doorbell.
George's ears rang. He stared at the door.
It opened.
The Alpha's pheromones hit him — choking, overwhelming. His gland spasmed painfully. Buried instinct surged. Something long dead clawed back from six feet under.
The image sharpened.
No hood. No mask.
Max stood there.
Thinner. Sharper. Older. Blond hair longer. The same face George had seen in dreams and nightmares.
But the eyes — deep ocean blue. Once full of life, now ice-cold. The eyes that had watched him from the floor as blood poured from his neck.
Alive.
George's first reaction was not fear.
It was absurdity.
Twin? Coincidence? Madness? His inner Omega answered for him. This was his lover. The man he had loved. The man he had killed while still loving him.
His fingers curled into his palm. Breath shallow. Heart pounding.
He felt he might vomit.
"Max!" Carlos said cheerfully. "We brought cookies."
"And this must be George," Max said softly. "Come in. Don't mind my cats."
Two Bengal cats circled George's legs.
He could not move. Only Carlos's hand guided him inside.
Then fear finally arrived — along with something worse: relief.
He still loved Max.
He had told himself that love died that night.
It had not.
Sitting on Max's sofa — the same one from before — he recognized Jimmy's scratch marks. The cats settled into his lap.
Max brought water. "You look unwell," he said calmly. "Want a sandwich? In case your blood sugar drops, George?"
At the sound of his name, George looked up instantly.
That voice had soothed him, begged him, held him amid ruins of their love.
George stared at him.
How many times would I have to kill you, Max Emilian Verstappen? He thought.