"I can handle it." The words come out immediately. "Warrior omega bloodline. I survived his claiming bite when it should have killed me. I survived contamination that's fatal to normal omegas."
As if to remind me, I feel the changes in my own body—the hardened ridges of my scars, the purple tint beneath my nails that's darkened since I left the village. The contamination isn't killing me. It's changing me. Making me stronger, maybe. More able to metabolize what should be poison.
Maybe that's why I can do this. Why I'm the one who has to.
"The contamination," I say slowly. "It's making me more like them. More able to process cursed blood. Wouldn't that help with the transfer?"
The mystic's eyes narrow, considering. "Perhaps. The contamination has been... unusual in you. Instead of destroying, it's been transforming. Building something new." She tilts her head. "It's possible your changed blood could metabolize the curse more effectively than a normal warrior omega. It's also possible it could make the reaction more volatile. There's no precedent for what you are, child. No texts that describe an omega this far contaminated who's still alive and thriving."
"So it might help. Or it might kill me faster."
"Yes."
I file that away. Another variable. Another unknown.
"I'll take the risk," I say. "Whatever it takes."
"Maybe." She doesn't sound convinced. "Or maybe the transfer fails and kills all three of you. This ritual has never been performed successfully. Not in any record I've found."
"But it's possible."
"Possible." She closes the book. "You'll need his blood for the ritual. Fresh, freely given. His full cooperation throughout the process. And days—probably weeks—of research to find the right texts, identify the right components, determine the right timing."
Days. Weeks. Working with him. Being near him. Feeling the bond pull while our daughter runs out of time.
"I'll inform him what you require," she continues. "Library access. The restricted archives. Whatever ritual components we identify." She pauses, something shifting in her weathered face. "He hasn't left the library since he learned you were returning. Hasn't slept properly in days. Just searching through texts, tearing apart the archives looking for anything that might help."
I don't let myself feel anything about that.
"Fine. We start tomorrow."
"Tonight, rest." Her expression brooks no argument. "You're exhausted from the journey, and you'll need every ounce of strength for what's ahead. The research alone will be grueling. The ritual itself..." She trails off. "Rest while you can."
I nod and leave before she can say anything else.
The corridors feel like walking through a dream of a place I used to know. Every stone is familiar, every tapestry, every torch—but it all feels different now. Tainted by knowledge of what happened here.
Servants bow as I pass. They know who I am. Know I left bleeding and broken. Know I've come back despite everything.
I make it three turns toward my chambers before I feel him through the bond.
Close. Getting closer.
Then he's there—rounding the corner ahead of me, stopping dead when he sees me. He looks like he hasn't slept in days. Darkcircles bruising the skin beneath his eyes. Hair less kempt than usual, falling across his forehead. Clothes rumpled, worn with hours of hunching over books.
But he still holds himself like a king. Like a predator. The exhaustion doesn't diminish his presence—if anything, it sharpens him, strips away the civilized veneer until what's left is all hard edges and coiled power.
My body responds before my mind can stop it. Heat flickering low in my belly, my pulse quickening, the bond singing with proximity after weeks of distance. I hate it—hate that I can still want him after everything—but my treacherous flesh doesn't care about betrayal.
"Kess." My name comes out rough but controlled. "The mystic sent word. About the timeline. What you're planning."
"Not here." I glance at the servants pretending not to listen, grateful for the excuse to look away from him. "My chambers."
He falls into step beside me. Not behind—beside. Close enough that I can smell him—smoke and stone and something wild underneath that my contaminated blood recognizes even when my mind wants to reject it. Close enough that his arm nearly brushes mine with every step, the almost-contact somehow worse than actual touch.
I'd almost prefer if he cowered. Followed three steps back like a dog that knows it's in trouble. It would be easier to hate him if he'd just collapse.
My chambers are exactly as I left them—clean, aired out, prepared for my return. Fresh flowers by the window. Candles ready. A tray of food on the table: bread still warm, aged cheese, sliced meat, ripe fruit. Things a pregnant omega needs.
