I don't answer. Can't answer around the rage and despair clawing at my throat. The knowledge that I'll never be free, never be able to choose where I go or what I do.
"The bond needs proximity until it settles completely," he continues calmly, as if discussing the weather rather than my enslavement. "Eventually, you'll be able to travel further."
"How much further?" My voice comes out raw from screaming.
"A few miles. Maybe ten, if you're very strong that day."
Ten miles. In a world that spans continents, I get ten miles of freedom. Less space than I could walk in a single afternoon as a human.
The casual way he delivers this information makes me want to scream again. He's stolen my entire world and reduced it to the size of a small town, and he sounds bored discussing it.
Day thirty-seven, I test other boundaries.
If I can't leave, maybe I can still resist in other ways. Maybe there are limits to what the bond can force me to accept.
Can I destroy his things? I try to smash a crystal goblet he's left on the dining table, raising it high above my head. But my hand freezes inches from releasing it, unable to complete themotion. Some invisible force holds my fingers tight around the delicate stem.
I strain against the compulsion, muscles shaking with effort, but it's useless. The bond won't let me damage anything that belongs to him. Won't let me lash out in even the smallest ways.
Can I refuse his direct commands? When he tells me to make tea during his afternoon reading, I find I can say no. My mouth forms the word, my body remains still. But the moment I refuse, an aching emptiness opens in my chest—not pain, but longing. The desperate need for his approval, his pleased voice, his satisfied expression.
I stand there for ten minutes, fighting the urge to comply, but the emptiness grows unbearable. Finally I give in and make the tea, and the warm glow of his "thank you" fills the hollow space inside me like sunlight.
I could refuse. But I don't want to suffer the consequences.
Can I hurt myself? I manage to dig my nails into my arms hard enough to leave marks, but the satisfaction I expect doesn't come. Instead, I feel hollow and wrong, like I've damaged something precious that belongs to him. The bond doesn't stop me, but it makes me regret every scratch until I'm applying healing salve with shaking hands.
Can I walk away from him when he's speaking? Yes, but every step makes me feel more isolated, more incomplete. I make it to the other side of the palace before the emptiness becomes unbearable and I find myself returning to seek his presence.
Each test reveals the same cruel truth: I can resist, but resistance brings suffering while compliance brings peace. The bond doesn't force me—it just makes the choice obvious.
"You're testing the wrong things," he says that evening, finding me curled in the library with tears of frustration streaking down my cheeks.
I've been sitting here for hours, staring at the walls lined with books I can't concentrate on reading. Every attempt to focus my mind away from him fails—my thoughts drift back like a compass needle finding true north.
"What should I be testing?" I ask without looking up.
"Whether you want to break free badly enough to hurt yourself trying."
The suggestion sends ice through my veins. I stare at him, searching his expression for any hint of what he's thinking. "Do you want me to want to escape?"
"I want you to understand the scope of what you've become. To make peace with reality instead of exhausting yourself fighting the impossible."
"What if I don't want to make peace?"
"Then you'll spend however long you have left being miserable." He settles into the chair across from me, those pale eyes studying my face with clinical interest. "Your choice."
But it's not really a choice, is it? He's designed the perfect prison—one where the only escape from suffering is acceptance. Where resistance brings pain and submission brings relief.
That night, I find the genealogy section.
Unable to sleep, tormented by memories of our claiming that the preservation magic won't let fade, I wander the library until I discover an entire wing dedicated to bloodline records. Hidden behind newer volumes are older tomes—bloodline traces, family trees, detailed documentation going back centuries.
The books are organized by region and potential, marked with symbols I'm beginning to recognize. Omega bloodlines, alpha territories, successful bondings and failed attempts. An entire library devoted to the systematic cataloging of human breeding stock.
And there, in a volume titled "Potential Omega Bloodlines: North American Territories," I find my family.
The Montgomery line, traced back five generations in meticulous detail. Birth dates, death dates, notes on omega potential and transformation attempts. But the records go back further than that—to before the Sundering, when the worlds were still connected.
