I watch from the crystal windows of my study as Edgar Montgomery's carriage pulls away from the palace gates, carrying my omega back to the human world. The wheels crunch through snow that parts before them like a curtain, my magic ensuring their passage despite the storm that should make travel impossible.
A final gift. Or perhaps cruelty—making her departure smooth when her return will be anything but.
She didn't look back. Didn't even glance toward the palace as the carriage rounded the first bend. Just sat rigid beside her father, wrapped in the human coat that will provide no real warmth against the cold that lives in her bones now.
The bond stretches between us like a wire under tension, carrying echoes of her determination and the growing ache of separation. She's trying to convince herself this is freedom, that choosing the lesser of two prisons counts as victory.
Let her believe it. For now.
I settle into my chair and pour three fingers of whiskey, savoring the burn as it goes down. The alcohol does nothing to dull Fae senses, but the ritual provides a familiar comfort as I contemplate what comes next.
She thinks she's escaped. Thinks her father's love and human medicine can somehow undo what I've made her into. The ignorance would be charming if it weren't so completely futile.
The preservation magic ensures she'll remember every moment of our claiming with crystal clarity. Every time I filled her completely, every grateful sob when my knots locked us together, every whispered "thank you, alpha" when I gave her exactly what her body craved.
She'll compare every breath of freedom to those perfect memories. Every human meal will taste like ash compared to food I fed her by hand. Every night alone in her childhood bed will remind her of how perfectly she fit against my chest, how safe she felt in my arms.
Her omega nature will reassert itself within days. The ache will start small—just a hollow feeling where contentment used to live. Then it will grow, spreading through her chest like poison until every breath hurts and every moment feels incomplete.
The dormant bond I created isn't merciful. It's a leash with enough slack to let her think she's free while ensuring she can never truly escape. She'll age slowly, neither human nor Fae, belonging to neither world. Her magic will leak out in uncontrolled bursts, marking her as other wherever she goes.
And through it all, she'll remember what it felt like to be complete.
Perfect manipulation disguised as mercy. I should be celebrating the artistry of it.
So why does the palace feel so empty?
I drain my glass and pour another, studying the flames in the fireplace that seem dimmer without her presence to reflectoff the crystal walls. The ice sculptures in the courtyard have stopped moving, frozen in poses that somehow manage to convey grief. Even the magic itself feels muted, as if the stones remember what they've lost.
Foolish sentiment. She was property, nothing more. Beautiful, responsive property that I shaped exactly to my specifications. Her absence is an inconvenience that will resolve itself when biology drives her back to where she belongs.
The whiskey tastes bitter on my tongue.
By evening, reports begin arriving from my border scouts. I break the wax seal on the first dispatch with hands that remain perfectly steady, though something cold settles in my stomach as I read.
My Lord,
The Montgomery carriage reached Millhaven settlement at dusk. The girl barely managed the walk from carriage to inn, leaning heavily on her father's arm. Innkeeper's wife noticed her pallor, brought extra blankets. She touched nothing of the evening meal.
Will continue observation as ordered.
Captain Morris
I set the letter aside and pour another whiskey. She's already feeling it—the wrongness of being separated from her alpha, the hollow ache where the bond used to carry my presence. Her body recognizing that it's been cut off from its source of completion.
The second report arrives near midnight.
Lord Aratus,
The girl retired early but appears to sleep poorly. Innkeeper reports sounds of distress from her chamber—crying, calling out names. Father sits vigil outside her door.
She asked for tea at dawn but could not keep it down.
Morris
Good. The sooner she understands the futility of this choice, the sooner she'll return.
But when I try to return to my correspondence, the words blur together. Something about her crying, about Edgar keeping watch like she might disappear. The image bothers me in ways I can't name.
