"What was I supposed to say?" His hands clench at his sides, knuckles going white as bone. "That you should be dead? That every contaminated omega in three hundred years has died within days, and yet here you are, still breathing, still getting stronger, and I don't have any idea why?"
"Yes." The word comes out sharp enough to cut. "You were supposed to say exactly that. You were supposed to tell me what was happening to my own body instead of watching from the shadows and keeping secrets like I'm something fragile that might shatter if you speak too loudly."
"I was trying to understand it first. Trying to find answers before I?—"
"Before you what? Before you decided I could handle the truth about my own life?"
He's quiet for a moment, and I watch him struggle with something—the truth, maybe, or just how much of it to give me. When he speaks again, his voice is harder, more guarded, a door closing somewhere behind his eyes.
"Contamination protocol in this kingdom is immediate execution. It's been law for three hundred years, written into the codes by my grandfather's priests. Anyone showing signs gets a blade across the throat—no trial, no appeal, no exceptions. If the wrong person sees those symptoms on you, they'll have you killed before I can intervene."
The casual mention of my potential execution settles into my stomach like a stone dropped into deep water, sinking slowly, sending ripples through everything.
"So you were protecting me."
"I was trying to keep you alive long enough to understand what's happening." He reaches into his pocket and withdraws a small glass bottle, dark liquid gleaming inside like captured midnight. "I had this made for you. Better quality than whatever you found this morning—the color is deeper, won't chip, and it'll hide the purple completely even as it darkens."
I take the bottle, feeling the cool weight of it settle against my palm. "You had nail polish made for me."
"You need to hide the symptoms. This will help."
There's something in his voice I can't quite read. Something careful, measured. He's telling me the truth about the polish, I think—but not the whole truth. Not about everything.
"What else?" I ask. "What else have you been doing in the shadows while I've been transforming?"
He hesitates. Just a fraction of a second, but I catch it.
"Research," he says. "Every text I can find about contamination, about why some survive longer than others. Looking for patterns."
"And? What have you found?"
"Fragments. Nothing complete." His expression is unreadable now, closed off in a way it wasn't a moment ago. "References to omega bloodlines that could withstand more than others. Warrior bloodlines, they called them. But the details were destroyed centuries ago."
He's holding something back. I can feel it the way I can feel the bond between us—a tension, a withholding, something he's not saying.
"That's all? Just fragments?"
"That's all I've found so far." He meets my eyes steadily, and I can't tell if he's lying or not. "I'm still looking."
I want to push harder. Want to crack open that careful mask and find out what he's hiding underneath. But I'm also tired—tired of secrets, tired of circling, tired of this dance we've been doing since I arrived.
"Fine," I say. "Keep looking. And when you find something, you tell me. No more deciding what I can handle."
"Agreed." He says it quietly, and something in his voice sounds like he means it—a crack in the wall he's been holding up between us, a glimpse of something softer underneath.
He pulls something else from his pocket—a small cloth pouch tied with leather cord, worn soft from handling. "There's one more thing. Tea, a blend I had made for you."
I take the pouch and bring it to my nose, inhaling deeply. Bitter herbs dominate, sharp and medicinal, the kind of smell that promises healing through unpleasantness. Something floral hides underneath, almost sweet, like honey trying to mask the taste of medicine. And beneath that, an astringent note that makes my sinuses tingle and my eyes want to water.
"What's it for?"
"The transformation puts strain on your body—the changes happening too fast, the contamination spreading through your blood faster than flesh can adapt." He gestures vaguely at me, at all the ways I'm different than I was a month ago. "This blend should help ease the strain. Help your body adjust without being overwhelmed."
I turn the pouch over in my hands, feeling the dried herbs shift inside like whispered secrets. "You had tea made for me."
"Drink it every night before bed. It'll help with the changes—make them easier to bear."
The gesture catches me off guard, slips past my defenses before I can shore them up. The nail polish was practical, protective, the kind of gift a jailer might give a prisoner to keep her alive long enough to be useful. But this feels different, feels like something more—like he's been thinking about my comfort, not just my survival.
