"Don't touch me."
The words hit like physical blows through our bond. But when she tries again to stand and fails, she has no choice but to accept my help.
"Fine. Carry me. But don't—don't think this means anything."
I gather her in my arms, noting how perfectly she still fits against my chest despite her anger. How her scent has changed to include my own, marking her as a mated omega to anyone with the ability to detect it. How she can't quite stop herself from relaxing into my embrace despite her conscious hatred.
The omega in her recognizes her alpha and responds accordingly, even when her human mind rebels. It's another small cruelty—her body's betrayal of her conscious will.
The bath helps her physically, but not emotionally. She scrubs at the claiming bite until it bleeds, trying to wash away proof of what I've done to her. But the mark is permanent, sealed with magic and bonding, just like the frost patterns that decorate her skin. Just like the transformation that changed her very essence.
She tries to scrub away my scent too, but it's pointless. The claiming went too deep, marked her too thoroughly. She'll carry my scent for the rest of her extended life—a constant reminder of who she belongs to.
"I want to go home," she says when I help her back to bed, wrapping her in soft furs that seem to mock her with their luxury. "To my father's house."
"This is your home now."
"This is my prison."
"If that's how you choose to see it."
She stares at me with such hatred it should burn, but beneath it I feel her desperate longing for things to be different. For this to be a nightmare she can wake up from.
"How do you see it?" she asks.
"Paradise. Everything I've ever wanted."
The words come automatically, but they taste like lies. This broken creature who flinches from my touch isn't what I wanted. Is it?
"Everything you've ever wanted is a broken woman who despises you?"
The question hits harder than it should, cutting through my certainty like a blade. Because she's right—she is broken now. Perfectly, beautifully broken in exactly the way I intended. Transformed into something that will never fight me again because fighting has been carved out of her soul.
But looking at her now, seeing the light gone out of those transformed eyes, I'm starting to understand what I've lost in the process.
"You're not broken," I lie, the words tasting like ash. "You're claimed."
"Same thing." She turns away from me, curling into herself like a wounded animal. "Leave me alone. I need to pretend I still have some small corner of myself that belongs to me."
The bitter tone makes my chest ache in ways I don't understand. Through the bond, I feel her desperate need for solitude—not because she doesn't want me, but because she can't trust herself around me. Can't trust that she won't seek the comfort and completion the bond promises.
"You can go wherever you want in the palace," I tell her.
"How generous." She doesn't look at me. "After all, we both know I can't actually leave."
The bond would drag her back if she tried. The claiming ensures she can't survive long without my presence, can't find peace or satisfaction anywhere but in my arms. It's the perfect trap—one that makes her own body her prison.
When she dismisses me, I go. There's nothing more to say, nothing left to claim. I have everything I wanted.
So why does victory taste like poison in my mouth?
I stand alone in my chambers, surrounded by the scent of our mating and the evidence of what I've accomplished. The bond thrums between us even through the walls, showing me her pain, her despair, her desperate wish that none of this had ever happened.
This is what victory looks like, I realize. A perfectly claimed omega who gives me everything I demand and nothing I actually want.
I wanted her fire. Her spirit. Her passionate responses to everything that touched her life. The way she threw crystal at my head when I angered her. The defiant tilt of her chin when she refused to do what I asked. The magnificent fury that made her beautiful and dangerous and alive.
Instead, I have a beautiful shell that moves when I pull the strings. A broken doll that will thank me for using her because the alternative is too painful to contemplate.
