"Beautiful," I murmur, watching the crystal display spread across the stone. "Look what you do when you stop fighting."
"I'm not—" she starts, but her voice dies when she sees the display. The ice writing poetry in response to her arousal, creating art from her need.
The patterns are extraordinary—more complex than I've ever managed to create consciously. Spirals and flowers and geometric shapes that pulse with inner light, all of it born from her omega energy interacting with my alpha magic.
"You don't hate me," I say, leaning closer until my lips almost brush her ear. The scent of her is overwhelming this close—roses and honey and the musk of a woman in the early stages of heat. "You hate that you want me. Hate that your body recognizes what your mind refuses to accept."
"That's not true." But even as she says it, I can feel her pulse hammering against her throat, can smell the slick beginning to dampen her thighs.
"Isn't it?" I press my hips forward, letting her feel the thick length of both my cocks pressed against her hip. She gasps, her back arching involuntarily, pushing her breasts more firmly against my chest. "Your pussy is getting wet right now. I can smell it. Your body is begging for something your mouth won't ask for."
The crude words make her whimper—a small, needy sound that goes straight to my cocks. She's fighting so hard to maintain control, but her body is betraying her at every turn.
"Please," she whispers, but I don't know if she's begging me to stop or continue.
"Please what?" I nuzzle her neck, breathing in her intoxicating scent. The pulse point under my lips is racing, her skin fever-hot despite the cold radiating from my body. "Say it. Tell me what you want."
"I want..." She's trembling now, caught between desire and denial. Every breath makes her chest rise and fall against mine, the friction sending sparks through both of us. "I want you to..."
"Yes?"
The word hangs between us, loaded with promise and threat. I can feel her hovering on the edge of surrender, her body screaming for what her mind is afraid to ask for.
"To touch me." The words come out in a rush, like she's afraid to hold them in her mouth too long. "Please touch me."
Victory surges through me, but I don't let it show. This is progress, but it's not enough. She needs to understand exactly what this is, what she is, what we're becoming.
"Not good enough." I pull back just enough to meet her eyes, to let her see the hunger in mine. "Tell me who I am."
She stares at me for a long moment, and I can see the war raging behind her brown eyes. The last of her resistance crumbling under the weight of needs she can't deny anymore. Her omega nature rising to the surface despite every attempt to suppress it.
"Alpha," she whispers, and the word is like a prayer. "Please touch me, Alpha."
The moment the word leaves her lips, the palace explodes with sound. Every piece of ice in the building rings like a bell, a crystalline symphony celebrating her first real surrender. The magic recognizes the significance of the moment, of an omega acknowledging her alpha for the first time.
The prophecy responds too. I can feel ancient magic stirring deep in the foundations of the palace, recognizing the bond beginning to form between us. Power that's been dormant for centuries suddenly crackling to life, fed by the omega's submission.
And my own preservation magic thrums with want—desperate to capture this moment, to burn it into both ourmemories forever. The urge to use it is almost overwhelming, to lock this feeling of her surrender into crystal perfection.
Soon, I think. Soon I'll use it properly. When she comes to me willingly, when she's ready for the claiming that will bind us permanently. When her heat makes the choice for her and strips away the last pretense of resistance.
But she's not ready yet. Not for what comes next. This surrender is born of desperation and need, not true acceptance. She needs to earn this touch, not have it given to her in a moment of weakness.
I release her wrists and step back, watching her sag against the wall. Without my body supporting her, she nearly collapses, her legs shaky with arousal and adrenaline. The loss of contact makes her whimper—a small, broken sound that goes straight to my cocks.
"Earn it," I tell her, my voice rougher than I intended.
"What?" She looks at me with dazed confusion, her pupils still blown wide with need.
"You want my touch? Earn it." I force myself to walk toward the door, even though every instinct screams at me to claim her right here against the wall. To sink my fangs into her throat and my cocks into her pussy until she's screaming my name. "Show me you're ready to be what you were born to be."
"I don't understand?—"
"You will." I pause at the threshold, looking back at her flushed face and swollen lips. She looks thoroughly debauched already, and I haven't even properly touched her yet. "When you're ready to stop fighting what you are, come find me. When you're ready to kneel and ask properly for what you need."
I leave her there, desperate and confused, the ice-flowers slowly melting as her arousal fades to frustrated fury. I can hear her slide down the wall, hear the soft sounds of her trying to catch her breath.
But the damage is done. She's called me Alpha. Admitted she wants my touch. Acknowledged the dynamic that's been building between us for weeks.
