Transmigrated as the Disabled Alpha of the Yandere Film Empress - Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The black Porsche sped through the misty night.

Song Yanrong turned her head to glance out the window, recalling the moment earlier when the bodyguard had carried her into the car. The memory made her uneasy.

There was a faint restlessness within her.

But that restlessness wasn’t just from that. The faint scent of rose wine from the woman beside her lingered in the confined space of the car, like a soft, cold blade pricking into every one of her pores.

Especially around her neck.

She retained part of the original host’s memories and had a basic understanding of the ABO world.

This was an alpha’s gland—just as private as a primary s3x characteristic.

In the ABO world, people were divided into alpha, omega, and beta. Betas had no pheromones and weren’t affected by them, but alphas and omegas could be drawn to one another.

Right now, she was being wildly attracted to Sun Jia’s scent.

Perhaps it was because she had just transmigrated and was encountering glands and pheromones for the first time, and couldn’t control herself well—so the sensation hit her a little too strongly.

Her glands were starting to swell.

She silently took a deep breath, trying to resist the urge to touch it.

Then a faint, low moan reached her ears. Song Yanrong instinctively turned her head. Sun Jia, wrapped in a thin blanket, was leaning against the car door.

Her hair was damp, soft strands sticking to her face and neck. She looked completely drained.

Song Yanrong asked, “Not feeling well?”

“I’m fine. I’ll be okay in a bit.”

Sun Jia wasn’t telling the truth. Though she’d only had a few interactions with her, she knew Song Yanrong wasn’t a good person. She didn’t want to show any weakness.

She couldn’t even tell if she felt hot or cold anymore.

Actually, the moment she touched Song Yanrong earlier, she’d already felt it—like her whole body was on fire, heat pooling in her lower abdomen, her glands pulsing violently, something on the verge of bursting out.

The tingling sensation ran from the inside out. The urge she was suppressing felt like she was tied down by ropes while a feather traced lightly across her skin—starting at her feet and moving upward.

Her fingers curled involuntarily. The pain was the only thing helping her stay grounded.

This reaction seemed like a heat cycle, but that wasn’t possible.

When she differentiated at age 14, the doctor had told her she was born “pheromone-insensitive.” She could conceive, she could be intimate, but she wouldn’t experience a typical omega’s heat cycle.

But if this wasn’t heat, then what was it?

Song Yanrong looked at her for a few more seconds, then turned to the driver. “Turn the temperature up.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She then handed the blanket from her own lap over to Sun Jia without saying anything extra, turning back to stare out the window.

Sun Jia paused, then softly said, “Thank you.”

Her hand touched the blanket, still warm from Song Yanrong’s body. The crisp, layered scent of an alpha grew stronger in her nose.

She didn’t want to use anything that belonged to Song Yanrong. She should’ve rejected it. But her body… was greedily accepting the alpha’s scent.

Sun Jia pulled the blanket tighter around herself. Her shoulders stung from a few scratch marks. She looked down—there were faint bl00d traces under her nails.

She’d scratched her own shoulder earlier to convince Song Yanrong she needed help—hard enough to draw bl00d.

It was a hasty, reckless move, and now, the delayed pain set in.

Sun Jia let out a hot breath. After a while, the symptoms eased slightly. Only then did she have the energy to glance up at the blurry reflection of the woman beside her in the window.

Song Yanrong had an objectively beautiful face—sharp profile, straight nose bridge, soft black curls falling to her shoulder blades. Her black formal wear was accented with a thin gold chain around her neck.

She sat motionless, gazing out the window with a serene and distant aura.

Very different from Sun Jia’s previous impression of her.

Sun Jia gave a silent, mocking smile. How could she think Song Yanrong was “clean”?

Suddenly, the reflection in the window turned to face her, and their eyes met.

Sun Jia froze. She didn’t look away immediately, but after a second, she feigned awkwardness and averted her gaze.

Outside, the rain continued to fall.

Song Yanrong was thinking about how Sun Jia had collapsed in the rain earlier. She’d been on guard and hadn’t helped her up at the time, but seeing Sun Jia shivering uncontrollably made her feel a little guilty.

She saw Sun Jia glance at her, then quickly look away. Song Yanrong figured the girl still thought she might do something.

She asked, “Do you want to come to the apartment with me, or should I arrange a different place for you?”

She was giving Sun Jia the choice.

Sun Jia was surprised by this, but it didn’t make her let down her guard.

If she were alone, Song Hanshuang would soon send people after her, and her end wouldn’t be pleasant.

From the moment she followed Song Yanrong, this woman had become her only option.

Maybe… she’d have to step on her to climb higher.

Sun Jia lowered her gaze. “I’ll go with you.”

Her voice was soft, her expression obedient and gentle—innocent to the point of almost inviting pity.

Song Yanrong’s voice dropped a few degrees. “Alright.”

She’s so good, Song Yanrong thought.

…

The car stopped at Nanping Bay, one of the top five luxury residences in South City.

This was one of the original host’s lesser-used properties.

A 200-square-meter single-floor flat with a gray and white European style interior. The floor-to-ceiling balcony gave a panoramic view of the distant Yun River.

Song Yanrong was satisfied with the place. And familiar with it.

That familiarity came from the original host’s memories.

She dismissed the bodyguards, then looked over at Sun Jia. In the warm light, the omega’s flushed face was even clearer.

“You can take a shower first. The clothes in the left side of the master bedroom closet are all new,” Song Yanrong paused. “Underwear too.”

Sun Jia nodded, still wrapped in the blanket, not speaking—afraid her voice would betray her.

Her body, which had finally calmed in the car, was once again burning up.

Song Yanrong watched her and suddenly smiled. Her voice was casual and dry: “I don’t think I’m capable of doing anything to you right now. Besides, I can’t even run.”

Sun Jia: “……”

“So you don’t need to be afraid.”

Sun Jia looked at her, bit her lip, and said, “I’m not afraid…”

“I won’t touch you. I brought you here because I don’t get along with Song Hanshuang. And… I also need a little favor from you.” Song Yanrong’s tone was half-truth, half-lie.

She wanted a good relationship with the protagonist, so she was being very patient.

“What kind of favor?”

“No rush. We’ll talk once you’re feeling better.”

“Alright.”

Sun Jia wasn’t in the mood to keep talking. Her legs were growing weak. She grabbed a nightdress and hurried into the bathroom.

At first, Song Yanrong sat in the living room.

But soon, the sound of running water reached her ears, soft and lingering like a silk thread wrapping around her.

The original host had a unique design taste. The bathroom door was made of clear glass. Although the wet and dry areas were separate and the space was large, once the shower turned on, that glass was like a paper-thin barrier stirring up dangerous thoughts.

Song Yanrong was a woman who liked women—and a woman with normal desires.

But she had principles.

As visions of a soaking wet omega and a translucent pink skirt flickered through her mind, and as her glands began to throb—she wheeled herself around.

She went to the master bedroom and tossed her phone on the table.

She had taken Sun Jia away directly. The Song family, especially the matriarch and Song Hanshuang, would definitely come looking. She’d turned off her phone the moment she got in the car.

This apartment wasn’t registered in her name—no one could trace it.

She wasn’t in the mood to deal with other issues.

As her eyes scanned the room, she spotted a red velvet jewelry box on the vanity.

She opened it and found a bracelet of small-leaf red sandalwood prayer beads lying quietly inside.

She picked it up, held it for a moment, and slipped it onto her wrist.

The original host’s bracelet was exactly the same as the one she had worn in her previous world for years.

Her right hand stroked the beads, gently rolling them, trying to calm the desire simmering in her body.

After a while, she wheeled over to the mirror behind the wardrobe and stared at her reflection.

Familiar, yet unfamiliar.

It was a face identical to her own.

The only difference—these disabled legs.

She couldn’t help but wonder—was there some kind of connection between her and the original host?

Otherwise, why had it been her?

Song Yanrong had been raised to solve problems—if there’s no solution, create one.

But this time, there was no answer.

She was still deep in thought when she heard a noise outside.

She wheeled herself out and saw Sun Jia bracing against the wall, her back to her.

Song Yanrong’s eyes flickered. Sun Jia was wearing a semi-transparent white cotton nightdress.

From this angle, she could clearly see the pink beneath.

“….”

Song Yanrong suddenly thought—if this keeps up, even a hundred prayer beads won’t help.

She cleared her throat and called out, “Guest room’s to the left.”

Right after speaking, she noticed something off—the room was now filled with a heavy rose-wine scent…

Her throat tightened, her lips dried instantly.

She had thought the faint scent in the car was Sun Jia’s real pheromone—but she was wrong.

This was the real one—sweet, overwhelming, intoxicating.

It felt like she was being enveloped by a sea of blooming roses, soft and sticky, while heat churned inside her.

Her hand unconsciously touched the prayer beads again.

“Sun Jia.”

She called her name gently, testing the waters, wondering if she needed help.

Right after, she saw Sun Jia stop mid-step, her thin back rising and falling rapidly with breath.

The wheels of her chair rolled forward quickly.

When she reached Sun Jia, the woman let out a rough breath and started to collapse. On instinct, Song Yanrong reached out and caught her by the waist, Sun Jia landing in her lap.

Though her legs were useless, Song Yanrong’s arms were strong. She held Sun Jia tightly.

The rose-wine scent grew heavier. The skin under her hands was scorching.

She suppressed her urges and asked, “Can you still walk?”

Sun Jia bit her lip and placed a hand on her shoulder, stifling the noises rising in her throat.

Song Yanrong didn’t speak again. She wheeled them straight to the guest room.

The furniture here was all customized for the original host’s condition. Placing Sun Jia on the bed didn’t take much effort.

What was more difficult—was restraining her own desire.

Sun Jia curled into a ball, sweat covering her forehead. She was burning up.

Her dry lips parted slightly as she panted. When her consciousness cleared a bit and she saw Song Yanrong, there was a flicker of fear in her eyes.

Song Yanrong covered her legs with a blanket, went out, and brought back a cup of warm water and some chilled oranges and grapes from the fridge.

“Drink some water.” She held the straw to Sun Jia’s lips, her voice low and hoarse. “The doctor’s on the way.”

In the ABO world, alphas and omegas experienced periodic susceptibility and heat—usually once every three months, sometimes even monthly.

Sun Jia was clearly in heat now and needed a suppressant. Knowing that was one thing—administering it was another.

“Suppressant…” Sun Jia murmured, barely conscious, her voice hoarse and trembling, almost crying. “Do you have…?”

Song Yanrong watched her pained expression in silence for two seconds, then left the room.

A minute later, she returned with a syringe—the only one in the house. It was the strongest and fastest-acting kind.

Just as she was about to speak, her eyes landed on the fruit tray—and noticed one thing missing.

Without showing it, she turned to Sun Jia and asked, “Can you do it yourself?”

Watching her labored breathing, she added quietly, “…I don’t think so.”

Her wheelchair moved closer. She leaned forward, voice deeper. “But Miss Sun…”

She called Sun Jia’s name as she reached under the pillow.

The next second, Sun Jia’s brow furrowed. She weakly tried to stop her but only managed to brush against her hand.

Song Yanrong grabbed her slender wrist and pinned it to the bed—then pulled out a fruit knife from under the pillow.

Looking at Sun Jia’s flickering eyes, her tone was somewhere between soothing and warning:

“I can help—but not if it means risking my life, right?”

Even in this state, Sun Jia had managed to grab a knife?

Song Yanrong thought about it—and actually felt some admiration. Her self-preservation instincts were strong.

But Sun Jia was now completely spent, gasping like a fish out of water.

Song Yanrong focused her mind. The doctor had texted earlier saying that if a heat wasn’t dealt with in time, it could be like heatstroke—causing organ damage.

She didn’t hesitate anymore.

Suppressing her own rising heat, she popped the cap off the syringe and squeezed out the air.

“I’ve never done this before. I’ll try to be gentle. Bear with it.”

She leaned down, trying to locate the swollen gland on Sun Jia’s neck.

She spotted a small, red bump—it was tiny. She aimed the needle toward it, but suddenly, her arm was grabbed tightly.

Startled, her hand jerked—nearly injecting the wrong spot.

Sun Jia’s weak voice trembled, “Not… there.”

“…?”

She had some of the story’s plot in her head, but she didn’t know everything—maybe everyone’s glands were in different spots.

Suppressing her surprise, she asked, “Where, then?”

After a few seconds, Sun Jia seemed to catch her breath. Her hand moved weakly to the side of her waist, lifting her nightdress as she struggled to inhale.

Song Yanrong helped her turn over into a prone position.

Sun Jia whispered shakily, “…waist…”

Still wearing the nightdress, Song Yanrong wasn’t fazed. She pulled the comforter over to cover the view, then lifted the dress. Even this simple process made her break into a sweat.

When she reached the waist, she tried hard to ignore everything else—but found nothing gland-like there.

“I don’t see it.”

Worried she was hallucinating from the fever, she asked again, “Exactly where?”

“Lower…”

Lower?

Song Yanrong’s gaze dropped… to where the pink fabric gently curved.

Which meant—it was…

Song Yanrong: “…”