Father slams his hand on the table. "There must be something?—"
"There is one option." Professor Wells hesitates. "Other alphas. If Lord Aratus were to formally release his claim, another alpha might?—"
My body's reaction is violent and immediate. I vomit, barely making it to the waste basket. The mere thought of another alpha touching me makes my skin crawl, my magic lash out, everything in me screamingwrong wrong wrong.
The preservation magic rebels against the very concept. It remembers exactly how perfect it felt to be claimed by himspecifically—his scent, his touch, the unique way his dual cocks filled me completely. The idea of anyone else trying to take his place is nauseating.
"I see that's not an option," the scholar says mildly.
My pussy aches as the violent rejection subsides, reminding me how empty I am. How incomplete. The bond carries phantom sensations of his knot, the ridged texture that fit me so perfectly. No other alpha could satisfy the specific need he's created in me.
When Professor Wells leaves, I'm alone with the truth. I'm not just claimed. I'm specifically programmed for one alpha and one alone. My body will accept no substitutes, no alternatives.
The preservation magic whispers its terrible truths: You were made for him. Shaped to fit him perfectly. No one else will ever satisfy you the way he does.
That night, I dream of the Frost Court. Not nightmares this time, but memories of quiet moments. His hand steadying mine as I learned to control the magic. The approving nod when I completed a task correctly. The way he held me after the claiming, careful and protective.
But the dream takes on a sexual edge I can't control. I remember how it felt to kneel between his thighs, taking his cocks into my mouth one at a time. The weight of them on my tongue, the taste of his pre-cum, the way he'd thread his fingers through my hair and guide my movements.
"Such a good omega," dream-Aratus murmurs as I service him eagerly. "Look how perfectly you take both my cocks. Made for this, weren't you? Made to pleasure your alpha."
Dream-me whimpers around his length, pussy dripping with need as I deep-throat him. The preservation magic makes every sensation vivid—the stretch of my jaw, the way he hits the back of my throat, the pride that floods me when he groans with pleasure.
"I'm going to knot your pretty mouth," he warns, and dream-me nods desperately. "Going to fill you up and watch you swallow every drop."
I wake to find I've been crying in my sleep, and the tears have frozen into perfect crystals on my cheeks. But worse than the tears is the desperate throbbing between my legs, pussy so swollen and wet I can't think past the emptiness.
Worse, I catch myself missing him. Not just needing him physically, but missing his presence. The morning routine where he'd watch me prepare breakfast. The evening lessons in magic and protocol. Even the humiliation of eating on the floor had structure, purpose, his attention focused completely on me.
"You made me love the cage," I whisper to the empty room. "Made me need the chains. And now freedom feels like dying."
The human world feels fake now. Like playing house after experiencing something devastatingly real. Every interaction is hollow compared to the intensity of our dynamic. Every human man is pale and insignificant compared to his ancient power.
I hate him for this.
I hate myself more for missing it.
Tomorrow will be Day 56. The countdown continues, my body preparing for what's coming. The second heat that will drive me back to him or kill me trying to resist.
Professor Wells was clear—ten days until critical, maybe less given how complete my transformation is. Ten days to decide if I want to live as his or die as mine.
But as I lie in my childhood bed, pussy aching with memories of his knot, magical power lashing out chaotically without his control to shape it, my body growing weaker by the day as the bond slowly kills me, I'm starting to realize the choice was made long ago.
Not much of a choice. Never was.
The bond pulses in my chest, patient and inevitable, knowing exactly how this ends. And somewhere in a palace of ice, he's probably counting down the same days.
Waiting for biology to bring back what he trained too well to stay away.
The preservation magic hums approvingly, carrying phantom sensations of his touch, his voice, his cocks filling me perfectly. Every memory is crystal clear, every moment of pleasure archived in excruciating detail.
I was his perfect omega for those precious weeks. Complete, satisfied, purposeful in ways I'd never been before. And now, dying slowly in this pale imitation of freedom, I'm beginning to understand the cruelest truth of all.
I was happiest when I belonged to him completely.
CHAPTER 21
ELISE
