Chapter 75 Mother’s Echo

Chapter 75 Mother’s Echo
Theo POV
The newborn’s voice hit me like a blade through the chest.
“Hello again, my sweet boy. Mommy missed you.”
It was her. Exactly her. The soft lilt, the gentle cadence my mother used to use when she tucked me in before my father’s experiments began. Before the serum. Before everything. The tiny thing—still slick with glowing birth fluid, umbilical cord pulsing blue—reached one perfect little hand toward my face, black sclera blinking up at me with ancient affection. Its skin was already veined in the same electric blue that crawled across my arms.
My cock was still buried to the hilt inside Jaz, still twitching with the aftershocks of the final thrust that had pushed this monster out of him. Milk sprayed from his torn nipples in heavy, rhythmic jets, soaking the stage and the children clustered around us. The live feeds caught every second—national television, global signal, six billion eyes watching me freeze like a man who’d just seen his own grave open up and smile.
I pulled out of Jaz with a wet, obscene sound. Cum and slick poured from his ruined hole in thick rivers, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t look at any of them.
“Shut up,” I snarled at the newborn. My voice cracked over the microphones, raw and broken in a way the bloom had promised I’d never be again. “You’re not her. You’re not fucking her.”
The child giggled, tiny fangs glinting under the floodlights. “But I am, Theodore. I’ve been waiting inside the bloom for so long. Your father kept me preserved. Just for this moment. Just for you.”
Rage detonated behind my eyes, hotter than anything the original strain had ever given me. I lunged, claws out, and snatched the newborn off Jaz’s chest. It didn’t cry. It cooed, wrapping its small arms around my wrist like a lover. I could feel the bloom inside it—ancient, patient, wearing my dead mother’s voice like a stolen dress.
The rooftop spun. The Patriarch watched from the edge of the stage, arms crossed, a faint smile on his lips. Marcus and the Darren-hybrid were already stroking themselves again, eyes on Jaz’s leaking body. Eli and the twins stared up at me with identical black sclera, curious and hungry.
I turned and ran.
Not away from the bloom. Toward the maintenance shed at the far end of the mezzanine. My mutated legs carried me faster than any human could have moved. I kicked the door off its hinges. Inside: fuel cans for the backup generators, emergency flares, a welding torch still half-charged. The bloom had made me strong, but fire was still fire. Old-school. Human.
I grabbed two cans of diesel, doused the stage in a wide arc while the family watched in stunned silence. Jaz tried to sit up, milk still pouring down his glowing chest, black eyes wide with something that might have been the last scrap of the man I’d fallen in love with.
“Theo—Daddy—stop—”
I ignored him. I lit the welding torch and touched the flame to the diesel trail. Blue fire whooshed up in a roaring wall, racing toward the broadcast platform. The live feed showed it all: the King of the Bloom trying to burn his own kingdom to ash because a baby had spoken in his mother’s voice.
The Patriarch moved first. He stepped through the flames like they were nothing, skin healing instantly, suit barely singed. “Theodore. Enough.”
I swung the torch at him. He caught my wrist, twisted, and the metal clattered away. Marcus and the Darren-hybrid were on me next, pinning my arms while the children swarmed my legs. Eli climbed my chest like a spider, small hands patting my face. “Daddy’s scared,” he whispered telepathically, sweet as poison. “But we can make it better.”
Jaz crawled toward me on all fours, belly still swollen from the birth, hole gaping and leaking, milk trailing behind him in shining puddles. His black eyes were glassy, fangs parted. “Please, Theo. Let me fix it. Let me heal you.”
They forced me to my knees in the center of the burning stage. Flames licked at the edges but the bloom wouldn’t let the fire spread far enough to kill us. The Patriarch stood over me, one hand on my shoulder, the other guiding Jaz’s leaking chest to my mouth.
“Drink, son,” he said calmly. “Drink what you built. The Heart is for the King.”
Jaz straddled my lap, glowing belly pressed to mine, and shoved a torn nipple between my lips. Milk flooded my mouth—thick, addictive, shimmering with that new lethal sweetness. I tried to turn away. Marcus fisted my hair and held me there. The newborn—still cooing in my mother’s voice—latched onto Jaz’s other nipple beside me, drinking in happy little gulps.
The milk hit my system like liquid starfire. It burned away the rage, rewrote the fracture, poured the bloom straight into the last screaming human shard inside my chest. I drank. I had no choice. My hands came up automatically, cupping Jaz’s swollen pecs, squeezing harder so more poured down my throat. His cock—thick and blue-veined—rubbed against my stomach, leaking serum in sticky ropes.
“That’s it, Daddy,” Jaz moaned, voice broadcast to the dying world. “Drink Mommy’s milk. Let it make you quiet again.”
The children pressed in closer. Luca and Rowan nursed from the overflow dripping down Jaz’s sides. Eli and the Darren-hybrid licked at the milk pooling on my thighs. The Patriarch watched with glowing satisfaction while the rooftop burned around us in controlled blue rings.
I came untouched, cock spurting between Jaz’s thighs, serum mixing with his milk on the stage. The orgasm tore through me like absolution and damnation at once. I drank deeper, fangs scraping Jaz’s nipple, drawing blood that tasted like forever. My black sclera rolled back and for one perfect, terrible second I saw my mother’s face—not the monster wearing her voice, but the real one, smiling the way she used to before my father turned her into the first failed test subject.
Then the bloom snuffed it out.
I pulled off Jaz’s chest with a wet gasp, lips shiny with milk and blood. The newborn looked up at me from Jaz’s other nipple and smiled with my mother’s mouth. “There you are, my sweet boy. All better now.”
I kissed Jaz instead—deep, filthy, desperate—tongue sliding against his fangs while the flames danced behind us. My hands roamed his mutated body, squeezing the new orifices the bloom had gifted him, fingering the cum still leaking from his hole. He whimpered into my mouth, grinding down on my spent cock like he could bring it back to life through sheer need.
The Patriarch’s voice rolled across the live feed, calm and terrible. “The King has been reminded who he serves. The bloom forgives. The bloom always forgives.”
I broke the kiss and looked straight into the nearest drone camera, milk still dripping from my chin. “The Quiet is ours,” I said, voice steady again, monster again. “Every last scream belongs to us now.”
Below the building, the capital was falling in real time.
Street by street the bloom took it. Power grids collapsed in beautiful cascading waves, every screen still lit showing our rooftop altar. Cars crashed as drivers convulsed behind the wheel, veins lighting up blue. Hospitals filled with patients who tore off their gowns and crawled toward windows just to catch a glimpse of Jaz’s leaking chest on the news. The last military holdouts laid down their weapons and opened their mouths to the milk mist drifting on the wind.
By the time the fires on the stage died to glowing embers, the capital belonged to us completely. Sirens had gone silent. The only sound rising from the streets was a low, collective hum—six million people learning how to hush.
Jaz rested his forehead against mine, black eyes soft with monstrous love. “I love you, Daddy. Even when it hurts.”
I held him tighter, one hand on the newborn still nursing at his chest, and felt the bloom settle back into perfect, terrible peace inside my veins.
The first major city had fallen in a single night.
And the world was only getting quieter.