Now it's just a matter of time before she comes to me willingly. Before she stops fighting her omega nature and embraces what she's becoming.
Before she kneels at my feet and begs me to claim her properly.
The prophecy is stirring. Ancient magic responding to the first real bond I've felt in centuries. She's the one—I can feel it in my bones, in the way the palace itself celebrates her submission. In the way my magic recognizes hers, omega power calling to alpha dominance across the species barrier.
In the distance, I sense approval from an even older power. Lord Oberon, the ancient mentor who first guided me toward understanding the true nature of omega claiming. His satisfaction whispers through the magical currents—Well done. The prophecy progresses as it should.
Soon, she'll feel it too.
Soon, there will be no more pretending. No more fighting. No more denial.
Just an alpha and his omega, finally accepting what they were always meant to be.
I return to my chambers and lock the door behind me, my hands shaking with the effort of walking away from her. Both my cocks are still hard, throbbing with the need to claim what's mine. The scent of her arousal clings to my clothes, my skin, making it impossible to forget the way she felt pressed against me.
I grip myself through my trousers, remembering the way she felt pressed against me. The way she smelled when she was aroused—like honey and musk and desperation. The way hervoice broke when she called me Alpha, like the word was torn from somewhere deep inside her.
The sound she made when I stepped away—pure need and frustration wrapped up in a whimper that went straight to my hindbrain. The alpha in me wants to go back, to take what she's offering, to pin her down and claim her until she forgets everything but my name.
But patience will serve me better. Let her stew in her need. Let her body demand what her mind still wants to deny. When she comes to me—and she will come to me—it will be because she can't survive without it anymore.
Three more days, maybe four, before her heat hits in earnest. Before biology makes the choice for her and strips away the last of her resistance.
I can wait. I've waited six centuries already.
But when she comes to me—when she finally kneels and begs for what we both know she needs—I'll make sure she never wants to leave again.
CHAPTER 11
ELISE
DAYS 31-32
I wakeup so wet I've soaked through the sheets.
Day thirty-one, and my body feels wrong. Not sick—worse than sick. Empty. Like I've been carved hollow and something vital is missing. My pussy throbs with each heartbeat, swollen and aching for something I don't want to name.
The wrongness started in my dreams. Fragments I can barely remember—cold hands on burning skin, a voice like winter wind whispering commands I was desperate to obey. I dreamed of kneeling, of presenting myself, of begging for things that made me wake up gasping.
I throw off the covers and immediately whimper. Even the air touching my skin is too much. When did I get naked? My nightgown is shredded on the floor like I tore it off with claws in my sleep. The fabric lies in ribbons, destroyed by hands I don't remember using.
Everything's too hot, too tight, too sensitive. My breasts feel heavy and swollen, nipples so hard they ache. Between my legs, I'm slick and puffy, my folds so sensitive that the slightest movement makes me gasp. I stumble to the window and pressmyself against the cool glass, but it only helps for seconds before the aching gets worse.
My reflection in the window glass is almost unrecognizable. Hair wild, skin flushed and gleaming with a thin sheen of sweat. My eyes look fever-bright, pupils dilated until there's barely any brown left. And there's something else—a shimmer across my skin like starlight on ice, magic leaking out of me in visible waves.
That's when his scent hits me.
Pine and winter and something dark that makes my mouth water. Makes my pussy clench and gush more slick until it's running down my thighs in warm streams. He's not even here, but I can smell him everywhere—on my skin, in my hair, coating the room like he's marked every surface.
Like he owns it all. Like he owns me.
The scent triggers something primal in my brain, some omega instinct that bypasses all rational thought. My body recognizes its alpha's smell and responds accordingly—knees going weak, core clenching with need, slick flowing faster as my body prepares itself to be claimed.
"No," I whisper, but my body betrays me. My nipples are so hard they hurt, and when I accidentally brush against them, I moan like a whore. The sound echoes in the empty room, shameless and needy.
I try to get dressed, but clothes feel like sandpaper against my hypersensitive skin. The simple cotton dress I reach for might as well be made of thorns. Even the softest silk chemise sends sparks of pain-pleasure through my nervous system.
Try to stand up straight, but my legs want to spread. Want to present myself like an animal in heat, ass in the air, pussy displayed and ready. The urge is so strong I have to grip the bedpost to keep upright, fighting instincts older than civilization.
