But as I write, my hand shakes with more than emotion. The preservation magic pulses through me, carrying phantom sensations of his touch. I can feel ghostly fingers tracing my spine, cold lips against my throat, the weight of his body covering mine.
My pussy clenches desperately around nothing, slick dampening my thighs as the archived memories assault me. The way he used to reward good behavior with careful touches, building my arousal until I was shaking with need. How he'd make me ask for permission before I could come, teaching me that even my pleasure belonged to him.
I finish the letter with trembling hands, then burn it like all the others. Watch the smoke rise toward the northern mountains where he waits.
Patient as winter. Inevitable as death. Knowing exactly what's happening to my body, how the separation is destroying me cell by cell.
I'm doing laundry when it happens.
Not because we don't have servants—we do. But my hands move without permission, gathering linens, sorting them exactly as he taught me. Whites separate from colors. Delicates hand-washed. His items?—
I freeze. There are no items of his here. Haven't been for weeks. But my hands are still sorting space for them, still organizing as if his clothes might appear.
The compulsion to serve feels different today. Heavier. More urgent. My skin is hypersensitive, every brush of fabric against my body making me shiver with unwanted arousal. The simple act of handling linens becomes torture when I'm this sensitized.
"Miss?" One of the maids, Sarah, watches from the doorway. "Do you need help?"
"No." I continue folding, precise hospital corners on the sheets, exactly as he likes them. My hands shake slightly as the fabric slides across my palms. Everything feels too intense, too much. "I need to finish this."
"But Miss, that's my job?—"
"Please." My voice cracks. "Just let me do this. I need to do this."
She leaves, confused. She doesn't understand that stopping feels like drowning. That my body needs to complete these tasks or the anxiety becomes unbearable. That serving him is carved so deep into my bones that even his absence doesn't stop the compulsion.
I fold for three hours. Every piece of linen in the house, organized exactly as the Frost Court prefers. By the time I'm done, my hands are raw and my back aches, but the bond purrs with satisfaction. The extended physical activity leaves me shaking with exhaustion—I tire so easily now, the dormant bond draining my strength daily.
Good girl. Good omega. Taking care of your Alpha's needs even when he's not there.
The praise floods my system with warmth, making my pussy clench with desperate need. I'm so starved for approval that even the bond's pale echo of his satisfaction makes me wet.My nipples are hard points against my dress, my whole body humming with arousal from completing tasks he'll never see.
That's when I catch myself walking to his room. Except he doesn't have a room here. I'm standing in front of Father's study, confused, my body expecting to perform evening tasks that don't exist anymore.
Turn down his bed. Set out his nightclothes. Prepare his chambers for the night.
Instead, I stand in the hallway like a broken doll, my body trying to perform routines for a master who isn't here. The compulsion is so strong it's physical pain—like trying to hold my breath indefinitely. My chest tightens, my magic lashes out wildly, frost spreading in chaotic patterns across the walls.
The magical outburst triggers another wave of unwanted arousal. Without him to ground me, every use of power becomes sexual frustration. My magic wants to dance with his, to be shaped and controlled and used properly. Instead it flails helplessly, each chaotic burst making me wetter and more desperate.
I slide down the wall, shaking with need and shame and magical overload. My skin feels like it's on fire despite the cold emanating from my uncontrolled power. Every nerve ending screams for his touch, his voice, his presence to make sense of the chaos inside me.
This is what he's reduced me to. A broken creature that can't function without her master's guidance. And the worst part? The absolutely worst part?
I miss it. Miss the structure, the purpose, the simple clarity of knowing exactly what I was for.
Professor Wells returns with news that feels like a death sentence.
"I've consulted with colleagues at the International Institute for Omega Studies," he says carefully. "The consensus is clear. Your transformation is too complete to reverse. You're a claimed omega at the cellular level."
"I know that?—"
"You don't understand the full implications." He pulls out a thick medical text, points to diagrams I don't want to see. "Your body now requires very specific things to function. Fae food, or you'll starve. Cold environments, or you'll overheat. And most critically..."
"My alpha," I finish.
"During heat, yes. But also for magical stability, emotional regulation, even basic biological functions. You're not independent anymore. You're half of a mated pair."
The words hit me like physical blows. Half. Incomplete. Broken without him.
