"Then I would have waited for the next generation." His matter-of-fact tone makes it worse somehow. "Or started again with a different bloodline. There are several promising families under observation."
The casual brutality of it steals my breath. Other families. Other women like me, being watched and prepared for claiming. An entire system of predation disguised as fate and biology.
"How many others?"
"From your line? Five attempts over the past fifty years. You're the first to survive transformation intact."
"Lucky me."
"Yes," he agrees seriously. "Lucky you. Your strength allowed you to become everything I hoped for."
Everything he hoped for. A perfect omega slave who can resist but chooses not to because the consequences hurt worse than surrender. A broken woman who will spend the rest of her extended life serving his needs while telling herself it's what she wants.
Day thirty-eight, I test the most dangerous boundary of all.
I spend the afternoon in the library, trying to lose myself in one of the romance novels he's provided. But even reading becomes another form of bondage. I find myself wondering what he'd think of the heroine's choices, whether he'd approve of the alpha's methods, how our story compares to the one on the page.
When the fictional omega surrenders to her alpha's demands, I think of my own surrender. When she finds happiness in submission, I wonder if that's what I'm supposed to feel. Every page reminds me of him, every love scene makes me remember our claiming with uncomfortable clarity.
I close the book in frustration, but even that feels wrong. He chose it for me. Rejecting it feels like rejecting his care.
The cruel truth becomes clear: I can resist, but resistance brings emptiness while compliance brings a peace that feels dangerously like happiness. The bond doesn't force me—it just makes the choice between suffering and contentment obvious.
Day thirty-nine, I confront the truth I've been avoiding.
I can't leave—the bond makes escape agonizing. Can't destroy his property—my hands won't obey such commands. Can choose to disobey him, but the emptiness that follows makes compliance feel like mercy. Can hurt myself, but regret follows immediately. Can walk away, but find myself returning to ease the loneliness.
The claiming was more thorough than I understood. It didn't just transform my body or bind us together. It rewrote my fundamental desires, made happiness and suffering depend entirely on him.
But I can still think. Can still question. Can still recognize the difference between genuine feeling and magical manipulation. Can still hold onto the knowledge that the woman who begged for his cocks wasn't really me, but some creature his magic and my biology created together.
I make my first real choice since the claiming.
It's not much. But I choose to hold onto the anger, the questions, the small flame of self that still burns beneath all the conditioning and magic and biological imperative.
Maybe I can't leave. Can't fight effectively. Can't refuse him without suffering. But I can remember that this isn't love—it's ownership dressed up as biology. I can recognize that my contentment comes from magical compulsion, not genuine happiness.
I can hold onto the knowledge that somewhere beneath the grateful omega who purrs at his touch, the real Elise Montgomery still exists.
It's not much resistance. Barely a rebellion at all.
But it's mine.
And I'm going to hold onto it with everything I have left, even if it's the only thing in this world that still belongs to me.
Because if I let go of that last piece of myself, there won't be anything left worth saving.
CHAPTER 16
ARATUS
DAYS 40-42
She's everything I wanted,and something about that troubles me in ways I can't name.
Day forty, I watch her serve breakfast with careful precision from my seat at the head of the dining table. The morning light streaming through crystal windows catches the silver of her transformed hair as she moves, each strand gleaming like spun starlight. She holds the ornate teapot with both hands to ensure steadiness, her movements fluid and graceful in ways that speak of hours spent perfecting the simple act of service.
The curtsy she offers when setting down my plate is technically flawless—exactly the right depth, held for precisely the correct duration. Her "good morning, alpha" carries genuine warmth that makes something in my chest purr with satisfaction, the tone calibrated perfectly to please without seeming calculated.
