Perfect submission. Exactly what I worked months to achieve through careful conditioning and patient training.
So why does part of me feel unsatisfied? Why does victory taste like dust when I should be savoring every moment of her transformation?
The claiming bite on her neck has healed into a perfect scar, two crescent moons that catch the light and mark her as mine for anyone to see. The wound pulsing faintly blue in rhythm with her heartbeat, a visible reminder of the bond that ties us together in ways that transcend the physical.
Her transformation is complete in every way that matters. Silver hair that catches morning light like captured moonbeams, flowing in waves down her back. Ice-blue eyes that mirror my own, reflecting the winter sky with crystalline clarity. Skin decorated with intricate frost patterns that pulse and shift when I'm near, responding to my presence like living art.
She's stunning in ways that make mortals weep. Obedient in ways that would make other alphas mad with envy. Thoroughly claimed in body, mind, and soul.
And yet something in my chest feels hollow when I look at her.
"Will there be anything else?" she asks, her voice modulated to that exact tone that experience has taught her pleases me most. Not too eager, not too distant. The perfect balance of attentive service and respectful distance.
"Sit with me." I gesture to the chair beside mine—the same chair she used to claim with defiant possession, where she once argued politics over breakfast and challenged every opinion I expressed with passionate conviction.
She settles into the seat with fluid grace, her posture automatically adjusting to proper omega deportment. Back straight as a blade, hands folded in her lap with precise positioning, every line of her body speaking of careful training and hard-won discipline.
The picture of perfect submission. But when I study her face in the morning light, searching those transformed features, I see something there that gives me pause. A flicker of intelligence behind those ice-blue eyes, a hint of the woman who used to make breakfast feel like a battlefield of words and ideas.
"What would you like to do today?" I ask, genuinely curious about what desires might exist beneath the careful conditioning.
She considers the question with the focused attention I've trained into her, her head tilting slightly as she weighs her response. "I thought I might read about magical theory. To better understand how the palace's crystalline structures interact with emotional resonance."
The answer surprises me. Not because it's unexpected—she's always been brilliant—but because there's genuine intellectual curiosity beneath the careful phrasing. She's not simply seeking busy work to fill her hours. She wants to understand, to learn, to grow.
"There's a new treatise on sympathetic magical bonds in the restricted section," she continues, then adds with careful deference, "Unless you'd prefer I focus on something else. Perhaps household management, or the cultivation of frost-gardens?"
Still seeking my approval, yes. But there's purpose behind her choices, direction to her interests. She hasn't become empty—she's channeled all her considerable intelligence and natural curiosity into serving me more effectively.
This should please me completely. An omega who applies her brilliant mind to understanding our world, to becoming better at pleasing me, to mastering the environment I've placed her in. What more could an alpha want?
Instead, I find myself missing something I can't quite name. The way she used to choose reading material specifically to contradict my positions, to arm herself for our verbal sparringmatches. How she'd spend hours researching obscure political theories just to prove me wrong about some minor point.
The fire that used to burn in her eyes when she discovered something that challenged my worldview, the excitement in her voice when she'd found ammunition for our ongoing intellectual war.
"Read whatever interests you," I tell her, watching her face for any hint of the old defiance.
She nods, and I catch a brief flash of something—not quite the old rebellious spark, but genuine enthusiasm for learning. Her eyes brighten slightly, and for a moment she looks almost like the woman who used to throw crystal decanters at my head when I made her angry.
"Thank you, alpha. I'll prepare a summary of the key concepts for your review."
And just like that, the moment passes. She's thinking of my needs again, considering how her learning can benefit me rather than simply pursuing knowledge for its own sake.
I dismiss her with a gesture, watching as she rises with that same perfect posture and glides from the room with silent steps. No clumsy stumbling, no unnecessary noise, no dramatic door-slamming. Just efficient movement from one task to the next.
Day forty-one, the summons from the main Frost Court arrives with the morning correspondence. My brother wants to see Elise before he dies.
The message is brief, clinical in its delivery: "Bring your omega for presentation. Time grows short."
I should have expected this. The illness that's been consuming Kieran for months is finally reaching its conclusion, which means I'll soon inherit the throne he's held for three centuries. Protocol demands that he meet my bonded mate before the succession occurs.
But something in his phrasing makes me uneasy. In his final days, my brother has developed a habit of brutal honesty that cuts deeper than any blade.
"We're going to court," I tell Elise over breakfast, watching her face for any reaction.
She straightens immediately, perfect posture shifting into something even more controlled. "Of course, alpha. When?"
"Today. My brother wishes to meet you before..." I trail off, not wanting to speak the words aloud.
