Chapter 71 Patriarch’s Claim

Chapter 71 Patriarch’s Claim
Theo Pov
The rooftop wind tasted like milk and ozone and the slow death of civilization. My cock was still half-hard inside Jaz, softening only because the bloom inside me had decided to savor the aftershocks instead of chasing another orgasm right away. He hung limp in my arms, bent over the glass railing, glowing belly pressed to the cold barrier while his torn nipples continued their endless drip-drip-drip onto the stage. Every drop caught the floodlights and turned sapphire. The children were still latched—Luca and Rowan greedy at his chest, Eli perched on the railing like a little gargoyle, tiny black-sclera eyes drinking in the chaos below. Marcus and the Darren-thing stood a respectful distance back, cocks out, stroking lazily while they waited their turn at my husband’s body.
I should have felt triumph. Instead, the Patriarch’s voice scraped across my nerves like rusted steel.
“Tomorrow,” he’d said only moments ago, “I will show you what I built this serum for, boy. A gift to humanity. And you will drink from me properly—on your knees, in front of every camera left on Earth.”
I pulled out of Jaz with a wet, obscene sound. Serum-laced cum poured from his ruined hole in thick, glowing ropes, splattering the stage between his spread feet. He whimpered at the loss, fangs scraping his own lower lip, but he didn’t move. Couldn’t. The bloom had him pinned in place by sheer need.
I turned to face my father.
He stood at the edge of the broadcast circle, tall and unbent in his tailored black suit, veins already pulsing that ancient electric blue beneath the skin of his throat. The same blue I now wore like war paint. Cameras zoomed in from every angle—drones, news choppers, phones held by the convulsing crowd below. The world was still watching. Good.
“You engineered this,” I said. My voice carried, amplified by the microphones still clipped to Jaz’s collar. “Decades ago. Before I was even born. Before Darren Cole ever raped his way into our bloodline. This wasn’t an accident. It was your fucking gift.”
The Patriarch smiled. It was the same smile he used to give me when I brought home perfect report cards—proud, cold, predatory. “Of course it was, Theodore. Humanity was screaming for silence. Wars, noise, endless wanting. I gave them the Quiet. A beautiful, obedient hush. You and your pretty little barista just accelerated the timeline.”
Rage detonated behind my eyes. I moved before conscious thought, claws out, and slammed into him like a freight train. We crashed through the glass railing in a shower of glittering shards. The crowd below screamed as we plummeted the first ten feet before the bloom caught us—my father’s veins flaring bright, mine answering in kind. We hit the lower mezzanine platform hard enough to crater the concrete, but neither of us stayed down.
I was on him instantly. Fists like hammers. I drove one into his jaw, felt bone crack, then grabbed his throat and lifted him off his feet. “You turned my son into a monster,” I snarled, black sclera wide. “You put this thing in Jaz’s body. You made me crave wearing his skin. All for your fucking sermon on silence?”
He laughed even as blood—glowing, thick—poured from his split lip. “I made you perfect. Look at you. King of the Bloom. You murdered for that boy, burned your empire, and now you wear the crown I forged. Say thank you, son.”
I slammed him backward into a steel support beam. The impact rang like a gunshot. His spine bent at an ugly angle, but the bloom was already knitting it back together. Blue light flared under his shirt. I ripped the fabric open, claws shredding silk and skin alike, and buried my fist wrist-deep into his chest cavity. Ribs snapped like dry twigs. I felt the wet, pulsing heart of the Patriarch beating against my knuckles—stronger than any human heart had a right to be.
The live feed caught every second. I could hear the anchors losing their minds in distant studios, voices cracking as they tried to narrate the end of the world.
“Die,” I hissed, squeezing. “Stay dead this time.”
His eyes—pure black, no white left—locked on mine with something almost like affection. “You still don’t understand. The serum was never a weapon. It was evolution’s apology. No more pain. No more choice. Just the bloom… and the quiet that follows.”
He healed around my fist. Flesh sealed, ribs snapped back into place, and suddenly my arm was trapped inside his chest like it was welded there. His hand came up, almost gentle, and stroked my cheek. Then he headbutted me so hard my vision whited out. We rolled across the mezzanine, trading blows that would have pulped normal men. I tasted my own blood, sweet and chemical. He laughed again, the sound wet and ancient.
Below us, the crowd had started chanting. Not words— just a low, hungry moan that rose and fell like a heartbeat. Jaz’s milk was still falling in delicate mist from the stage above, carried on the wind. I caught a glimpse of him: Marcus had already stepped in, bending my husband over the broken railing, fucking into him with slow, deliberate strokes while the children kept feeding. Jaz’s eyes met mine across the distance, black and shining with monstrous devotion. Come back to me, Daddy, his voice slid into my skull, telepathic and sweet. He can’t have you. Not all of you.
The Patriarch used my distraction. He wrenched free, spun me, and slammed me face-first into the concrete. My nose shattered. Pain bloomed bright and beautiful—pain the bloom immediately turned into pleasure. He pinned me with a knee between my shoulder blades and yanked my head back by the hair.
“Enough theatre,” he growled. “Time for your blessing.”
He sliced his own wrist open with a claw—deep, deliberate—and pressed the gushing wound to my mouth. I tried to turn away. He forced my jaw open with inhuman strength and poured the original strain straight down my throat. It burned like liquid starfire. My veins lit up brighter than they ever had, crawling up my arms, across my chest, down my cock where it still leaked Jaz’s slick. Power slammed into me so hard my back arched off the ground.
I drank. I had no choice. The bloom demanded it. My father’s blood tasted like every murder I’d ever committed and every time I’d made Jaz scream my name. Ancient. Pure. It rewrote something deep inside me, locking the last fractured piece of Theo Kane into the monster I’d become.
When he finally pulled away, I was on my knees exactly as he’d promised. Cameras everywhere. The world saw its King submit, even for a second.
The Patriarch stood over me, wrist already healed, and addressed the drones hovering like obedient flies. “This is the gift I promised you all. No more hunger that tears you apart. No more love that destroys. Only the Bloom. Only the Quiet. Drink from my sons. Drink from the Heart. And be free.”
He hauled me upright by the collar and marched me back toward the main stage like a prize. Jaz was waiting—still impaled on Marcus’s cock, still leaking, still smiling that fanged, broken smile. The children swarmed me the second I stepped onto the platform, small hands patting my glowing skin, telepathic voices cooing praise.
I grabbed Jaz by the throat and kissed him like I was trying to climb inside his mouth. He tasted like milk and my father’s blood and forever. When I pulled back, his eyes were wide.
Then it happened.
His nipples—already torn and swollen—suddenly wept thicker, heavier streams. The milk wasn’t just glowing anymore. It shimmered with a new iridescence, almost hypnotic. Droplets fell slower, heavier, and wherever they landed on the stage or the shattered railing or the upturned faces of the crowd below, people began to convulse.
Not in pain. In ecstasy.
A reporter in the front row dropped her microphone, fell to her knees, and started scooping the milk off the concrete with both hands, licking it from her palms like a starving animal. Her veins lit up instantly, crawling across her face in brilliant blue webs. She came on the spot—shuddering, moaning, eyes rolling back—while the cameras caught every second.
More followed. Dozens. Hundreds. The stampede below turned feral. People climbed over each other, trampling bodies just to reach the falling milk. Sirens wailed in the distance, but the bloom was faster. Phones lit up with the live feed, and viewers at home started convulsing too—global, instantaneous, addictive.
Jaz whimpered against my chest, milk spraying harder now, each drop a weapon of perfect surrender. “Theo… it’s changing. They can’t stop. They don’t want to.”
I held him tighter, my father’s blood still singing in my veins, and watched the world lose its mind for the taste of my husband.
The Patriarch laughed softly behind us, voice carrying to every microphone left alive.
“See? The Quiet has never been more beautiful.”
And somewhere in the growing silence of six billion craving throats, I felt the last human scream inside me finally go still.