Dream-me whimpers as his ice-touched fingers trace my swollen folds, teasing my clit until I'm shaking. "More," she begs. "Please, Alpha, I'm empty without you. So fucking empty."
"I know, princess." His voice is gentle, almost loving, as he positions himself behind me. "But you left me, didn't you? Chose pride over pleasure. Chose suffering over surrender."
"I'm sorry," dream-me sobs, pushing back against him desperately. "I'm so sorry. I'll never leave again. I'll be good. I'll be your perfect omega forever, just please?—"
The fantasy shifts, becomes even more vivid. I'm on my back now, legs spread wide, watching his dual cocks approach my aching pussy. The ridged texture that I remember so perfectly, the way he stretches me impossibly full. In the dream, I can feel every ridge, every vein, the way his knot swells inside me until I'm completely owned.
"Mine," he growls as he claims me, and dream-me comes instantly from the word alone. "My perfect little slut. Made to take both my cocks. Made to milk my knot until you're filled with my seed."
I wake gasping, sheets soaked with sweat that freezes instantly. My room looks like a blizzard hit—frost coating everything, icicles hanging from the bed canopy, my breath visible in air that should be summer-warm. But worse than the cold is the desperate throbbing between my legs, pussy so wet and swollen I can't think past the emptiness.
I press my hand against my core, trying to relieve the ache, but it's useless. My body knows exactly what it needs, and it's not my own touch. The preservation magic has archived everysensation of his claiming so perfectly that masturbation feels like a pale mockery.
"Not again," Vivienne sighs from the doorway. She learned not to come in when she hears me screaming. Last time she tried to comfort me, I nearly froze her hand solid. "I'll have the servants bring fresh linens."
"Don't bother." I sit up, ice crackling and falling from my hair, trying to hide how my thighs clench together. The simple movement makes me dizzy—another symptom of the bond slowly killing me. I've lost weight I couldn't afford to lose, my body consuming itself in its desperation to reconnect. "I'll just ruin those too."
The worst part isn't the claiming itself in these dreams. Those memories have a terrible sweetness that makes me hate myself—the feeling of being filled, completed, owned in ways that satisfied needs I didn't know I had. No, the worst part is remembering how I begged for it. How I presented myself like a bitch in heat, desperate and willing.
How I wanted it. How I still want it.
My body remembers too. Even now, barely three weeks since that night, I can feel phantom sensations of him inside me. Both cocks, those impossible ridges, the knot that locked us together for hours. My pussy clenches on emptiness, already wet just from the memory, and I have to bite my lip to keep from making a sound.
The preservation magic pulses through me, keeping every moment of pleasure locked in perfect clarity. I can remember exactly how it felt when his knot first caught, stretching me to my limits. How my body accepted it eagerly, walls clamping down around him like I was made for this. The way I came so hard I saw stars when he filled me with his seed.
I need a cold shower. Except nothing gets cold enough anymore. Nothing except?—
No. I won't think his name. Won't give the bond that satisfaction.
But my body doesn't care about my pride. It knows what it's missing, and the ache is getting worse every day.
Breakfast is a performance I've perfected.
I set two places without thinking—mine at the side, his at the head of the table. Pour two cups of tea, prepared exactly how he likes it. Three minutes steeping. One sugar cube, no milk. The temperature that I can somehow still gauge perfectly.
My hands move through the ritual like a dancer following choreography, muscle memory so ingrained it bypasses conscious thought entirely. Slice the bread exactly half an inch thick. Arrange the jam in the small crystal bowl, not the large one. Set his napkin folded just so beside his plate.
The simple tasks exhaust me more than they should. My hands shake with weakness, not just emotion. The bond is draining me slowly, my body trying to maintain magical pathways that lead nowhere.
"Why do you do that?" Father asks from the doorway. He's been watching me like I might snap. "Set his place when he's not here?"
"I don't know." But that's a lie. I do know. My hands move through the ritual without permission, muscle memory carved so deep it feels like breathing. "I just... do."
The bond hums approvingly as I complete each task, flooding me with tiny hits of satisfaction. Good girl, it whispers. Taking care of Alpha's needs. Anticipating what he wants before he asks.
"You could stop."
"Could I?" I reach for his cup to put it away. My hand freezes inches from the china. The bond screams in my head—that's not yours, don't touch, be good, leave it for Alpha. Physical pain shoots through my skull when I try to override the compulsion. "My body won't let me. Watch."
I try again. This time my hand shakes so violently I have to pull back. The third attempt brings actual pain, sharp and bright behind my eyes, like needles driven into my brain.
"Christ," Father breathes. "What did he do to you?"
"He programmed me." I go back to my breakfast routine, cutting toast into precise triangles the way he taught me. "Every habit, every gesture, every way to serve—it's all carved into my muscle memory now. I don't think about it. My body just does it."
The preservation magic ensures I remember every lesson perfectly. How to hold the teapot at exactly the right angle. Which spoon to use for which dish. The proper way to arrange flowers, fold laundry, prepare his bath. All of it locked into permanent memory, as unchangeable as gravity.
"The doctors said?—"
