I try to eat normal food and gag on every bite—nothing tastes right without the subtle magic that seasoned every meal in hispalace. I try to sleep in normal beds and toss all night, my body searching for the cold comfort of his arms around me.
I catch myself setting his place at dinner without thinking, arranging flowers the way he preferred, adjusting my posture to positions of submission even when I'm alone.
The conditioning runs deeper than thought, deeper than consciousness. It's written into my bones, my blood, my very essence. Every instinct has been rewritten to serve him, and no amount of conscious choice can undo that fundamental programming.
"You're different," Vivienne observes over afternoon tea I can't bring myself to drink. "Not just the obvious changes—something deeper."
"I'm broken," I admit, the words scraping my throat raw. "He didn't just change my body. He changed how I think, how I feel, what brings me satisfaction. I can't want things for myself anymore."
"What do you mean?"
"Every desire I have relates back to him. I want to read books he'd approve of. Wear clothes he'd find pleasing. Even my rebellion is about getting his attention." I laugh bitterly. "I can't escape him because he's become part of how I define myself."
Vivienne reaches for my hand, then stops when frost begins spreading from my fingertips. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "I'm so sorry this happened to you."
Day fifty, I write letters I'll never send.
The first is full of rage—pages documenting every cruelty, every manipulation, every moment my choices were stolen from me. I burn it and watch the smoke rise toward the northern mountains.
The second is full of longing—describing the emptiness, the wrongness, the way every breath feels incomplete withouthim. This one burns easier, the flames eager to consume my weakness.
The third is honest—admitting that I miss the structure, the purpose, the simple satisfaction of being exactly what someone needed. That freedom feels like punishment when you've forgotten how to want things for yourself.
I burn this one too, but my hands shake as I watch it turn to ash.
By evening, I'm sitting in the ruins of the parlor my uncontrolled magic has accidentally destroyed, frost covering every surface, ice flowers blooming from the walls in patterns that hurt to look at.
The preservation magic whispers its constant refrain:You were happiest when you stopped fighting. You were most yourself when you belonged completely to him.
And every day, it becomes harder to remember why I thought that was wrong.
Because maybe it wasn't wrong. Maybe resistance is just another form of suffering, and peace is worth any price.
Maybe the other omegas were right—contentment is the same as surrender, and there's nothing shameful about choosing happiness over pride.
Maybe I should stop fighting and just go back to him.
The thought should horrify me. Instead, it brings the first moment of peace I've felt since choosing freedom.
Which terrifies me more than anything else.
CHAPTER 20
ELISE
DAYS 51-55
The nightmare startsthe same way every night now.
I'm back in his chambers, that second day of heat when my body completely betrayed me. But in the dream, I watch myself from outside—see that pathetic creature on her knees, begging. "Please, Alpha. Need you. Need your cock so badly it hurts."
Dream-me crawls across the floor toward him, shameless in her desperation. And the worst part? I can feel what she feels. The relief when he finally touches her. The gratitude—actual fucking gratitude—when his cocks stretch me open. The way my pussy sings with rightness as he knots me, claims me, remakes me from the inside out.
But tonight the dream goes further.
I watch myself spread my thighs wider, presenting like a bitch in heat, begging him to fill me completely. Both cocks, I can hear myself pleading. Please, Alpha, I need both. Need to feel you everywhere. My dream-self is sobbing with need, back arched, slick dripping down my thighs as I beg him to knot my pussy and my ass simultaneously.
"Such a good omega," his voice rumbles through the dream, cold fire against my heated skin. "Look how perfectly you present for me. How wet you get just from remembering what it feels like to be properly used."
