She turns to stare at me like I've spoken a foreign language. Her face cycles through confusion, disbelief, and dawning horror as the implications sink in.
"What do you mean there are none? Who maintains this place? Who cooks, who cleans?—"
"You do." I let that sink in, enjoying the shock that flickers across her features. Twenty years of servants anticipating her every need, and now she's facing the prospect of doing things for herself. "The palace keeps itself running through magic. Food appears in the kitchens each morning. Water flows when you need it. The structure maintains itself. But cooking, cleaning, fire-tending—that's all you now, princess."
"I don't know how to do any of those things." Not defensive. Just stating fact with the kind of matter-of-fact honesty that emerges when someone's world tilts completely off its axis. "I've had servants my entire life."
"Then you'll figure it out." I push off the doorframe, ice crystals forming where my shoulder touched the stone. "Or you'll be cold and hungry. Makes no difference to me."
That's not entirely true. It makes every difference to me. But she doesn't need to know that yet. Doesn't need to understand that every moment of her discomfort is carefully calculated, every lesson precisely designed to strip away the layers of entitlement and reveal the woman underneath.
I've had six centuries to perfect this process. To understand that breaking someone completely creates an empty shell, while controlled pressure shapes something worth keeping.
She needs to choose submission, not have it forced on her. And choice requires consequences.
I leave her there because I want her to understand something fundamental: no one is coming to save her. No servants to fix her problems. No daddy to throw money at her tantrums. Just her, alone, with only herself to rely on.
And me, watching from above like a predator stalking wounded prey.
I settle in my chambers three floors up and wait for the inevitable.
The palace whispers to me as I pour wine—ancient magic that's watched countless generations of Fae lords claim their omegas. It tells me things: how her heartbeat spikes when she realizes the true scope of her situation, how her breathing quickens as panic sets in, how her scent shifts from defiance to something approaching despair.
But underneath it all, I can feel something else. The omega nature stirring. Not awakened yet—that won't happen until I claim her properly—but present. Like a seed waiting for the right conditions to bloom.
The first crash comes within an hour.
I don't need to investigate. The palace tells me everything through the network of ice that runs through every wall, every floor, every stone. She's destroying the bed in a fit of rage. Smashing the delicate frame with something heavy—probably the poker from the fireplace. Tearing at furs and linens like they personally offended her spoiled sensibilities.
The destruction is thorough. Methodical. She doesn't just break things—she obliterates them. Twenty years of suppressed fury channeled into destroying the one piece of comfort I've provided.
Perfect. Exactly what I expected from Edgar Montgomery's pampered daughter.
The palace responds with perfect indifference. Ice spreads across the broken frame, preserving it exactly as she left it. Everysplinter, every tear, every piece of her rage frozen in crystal clarity. A crystalline record of her tantrum that will last forever.
I pour myself more wine and smile. Let her rage. Let her break things. She'll learn soon enough that tantrums don't fix anything here. That the only person who suffers when she destroys beautiful things is her.
The magic flows around me as I settle deeper into my chair, feeding me information about my new omega's emotional state. Fear, now. The adrenaline of her fury burning off and leaving her to face the reality of what she's done. She's testing doors—finding them locked. Looking for blankets to replace the ones she destroyed—finding nothing.
Because I won't replace anything. Won't give her a second chance at comfort until she learns to value what she has.
By evening, I can feel her through the palace's magical network more clearly than before. Still awake, pacing her ruined rooms like a caged animal. The bond between us is strengthening whether she wants it or not—proximity and shared magic weaving threads of connection that will only grow stronger with time.
She's cold. Hungrier than she's ever been in her pampered life. Exhausted from the journey but too proud to ask for help. Too stubborn to admit defeat.
Good. Pride will make her eventual submission all the sweeter.
I can feel her confusion as she searches the rooms for answers that aren't there. The bathing chamber with its ice-carved tub that could provide warm water if she knew how to ask for it. The sitting room with its hidden compartments full of blankets and pillows. The bedroom wardrobe with its store of practical clothing.
Everything she needs, hidden in plain sight. All she has to do is explore, experiment, learn to work with the magic instead of fighting it.
But that would require humility. And Elise Montgomery has never been humble a day in her life.
I spend the evening reading reports from other courts, but my attention keeps drifting to the awareness of her moving through the rooms below. She's magnificent in her fury—all fire and defiance and desperate, clawing need. Exactly what I've been searching for across centuries.
Most omega candidates bore me. They're too eager to please, too quick to surrender, too grateful for any scrap of attention. I've turned down dozens of potential mates because they lacked the spirit to make conquest worthwhile.
But Elise... Elise burns bright enough to warm even someone like me. Her rage has substance, weight, reality. When I finally break her—and I will break her—it will mean something. The submission will be earned rather than given freely.
