She didn’t cry. The observation sends a pulse of satisfaction through me. I expected tears eventually—all omegas break down sooner or later—but the fact that she’s holding them back through sheer stubborn will only confirms what I already knew.
She’s strong. Strong enough to be worth the effort of breaking.
Our conversation goes exactly as I planned. Her defiance, sharp and desperate. My explanations, calm and clinical. The careful application of truth designed to show her exactly how futile her resistance will be. I tell her about the transformation, about the heat that will eventually force her surrender, about what happens to omegas who fight too long against their own biology.
I don’t tell her how much I enjoy watching her fight anyway.
Every time her breath catches when I move closer. Every flush of heat that spreads across her skin despite her fury. Every involuntary response her body makes to my presence, betraying her even as she struggles to maintain control. She’s already reacting to my scent, already responding to me on a level she can’t consciously override.
The awakening has begun. Nothing she does will stop it now.
When I touch her face—cupping that stubborn jaw in my palm, feeling her tremble beneath my fingers—it takes considerable restraint not to claim her right there. Not to push her down onto the bed and show her exactly what her body is already craving, whether her mind admits it or not.
But that would be too easy. Too quick.
I want her to come to me. Want to watch her pride crumble piece by piece until she’s begging for the very thing she’s fighting against. The surrender will be sweeter if she thinks it’s her choice—if she crawls to my bed believing she’s giving in rather than being broken.
By the time the heat takes her fully, she won’t be able to tell the difference between what her body demands and what she actually wants.
I release her and leave, closing the door on her flushed face and racing pulse.
My cock is painfully hard against my breeches, demanding attention I’ve been denying it since she walked into my arena. But I don’t stop at my temporary quarters down the corridor.
I go to the scrying room instead.
The crystal shows me everything.
Hannah paces my chambers like a caged wolf, her movements jerky with frustrated energy. She’s already explored every inch of her prison—I watched her test the windows, try the doors, catalog the weapons in the training room with the methodical attention of someone looking for any advantage she can find.
She won’t find one. I’ve had seven centuries to perfect my security, and she’s not the first prisoner to look for weaknesses in these walls.
But watching her try is exquisite.
She stops in front of the bed, staring at the silk sheets with an expression I can’t quite read. Her hands clench at her sides. Her jaw tightens with the effort of fighting something internal.
And then—slowly, like she’s at war with herself over every inch of movement—she leans down and presses her face into the pillows.
Yes.
I watch her breathe deep, inhaling my scent from the fabric. Watch her shoulders shudder with something that might be pleasure or might be despair or might be both tangled together beyond separation. Watch her jerk back like she’s been burned, her face flushing dark with shame at her own actions.
She can’t help it. Her body is already beginning to crave me, seeking out my scent the way a starving creature seeks food. Every breath she takes in my chambers will rewire her a little more, until being surrounded by me feels like comfort instead of captivity.
And sheknowsit.
That’s what makes her reaction so satisfying. She understands what’s happening to her, understands the slow erosion of her resistance, and she’s horrified by it. But she can’t stop herself from wanting more.
I unfasten my breeches and free my aching cock, wrapping my hand around the thick shaft as I watch her through the crystal. She’s moved to the chair in the corner now—the spot furthest from the bed, where my scent is weakest. Trying to distance herself from the source of her torment.
But her legs are pressed together, and even through the crystal I can see the flush spreading down her neck, the rapid rise and fall of her chest.
She’s aroused. Fighting it with everything she has, but aroused nonetheless.
I imagine her lying awake tonight, wet and aching and furious with her own body for wanting a monster. Imagine her pressing her hand between her thighs before she can stop herself, then jerking it away in horror when she realizes what she’s doing. Imagine the war she’ll fight against herself in the dark, alone with her need and her shame.
My hand moves faster.
I imagine her finally breaking. Coming to my door in the middle of the night, desperate and furious and unable to stand it anymore.
