How could you? How could you do this to me? How could you make me into something that can’t survive without you?
I don’t have an answer. Not one that would satisfy her. Not one that doesn’t make me sound like exactly the monster she believes I am.
I slide down the wall and sit on the cold stone floor, my head bowed, and I listen to her scream through the bond until her voice gives out. I feel the moment her throat tears, feel the copper taste of blood in the back of her mouth, feel the exhaustion that finally drags her into silence.
Lords and warriors pass by. They see their Guardian sitting in the hallway like a wounded beast, eight feet of bronze muscle reduced to something pathetic. They say nothing. They know better than to comment on weakness, even when it’s sprawled in front of them.
But I see the way they look at me. The calculations beginning behind their eyes. Seven centuries of unquestioned dominance, and one human woman has brought me to my knees without lifting a finger.
The third day, Lord Greymun makes his move.
He’s careful about it—nothing overtly threatening, nothing that could be construed as a direct challenge. But I see the calculation in his eyes, the way he’s measuring my vulnerability, testing to see how far the cracks have spread.
“Guardian.” He bows, just deeply enough to satisfy protocol. “I’ve heard concerning reports. Your omega has left the fortress?”
“She’s visiting her village.” My voice is flat. Controlled. The voice I’ve used for seven centuries to remind lesser Fae of their place. “It’s not a concern.”
“Is it not?” His lips curve in a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Forgive me, but it seems… unusual. An omega leaving her alpha’s side so soon after claiming. The bond should be at its strongest now, should it not? One might wonder if the bond is as powerful as we were led to believe. One might wonder if the great Guardian’s claim is… incomplete.”
Something snaps.
I move faster than he can track—seven centuries of combat experience compressed into a single motion. My hand closes around his throat and I lift him off his feet, slamming him into the nearest wall hard enough to crack the stone behind his skull.
“One might wonder many things.” My voice has dropped to a register that makes the air vibrate, that sends hairline fractures spreading through the floor beneath us. “One might wonder what happens to lords who mistake my restraint for weakness. One might wonder how long a Fae body survives without a head. One might wonder whether the Guardian’s mercy extends to creatures who question his bond in public.”
Greymun’s face has gone white. His hands scrabble at my grip, clawing uselessly at fingers that could crush stone. I’m not even straining. I could hold him here for hours. Could crush his windpipe like parchment. Could rip his throat out and watch him bleed silver on the floor of his own court.
I want to.
Gods help me, I want to kill something. Want to take all this rage and helpless fury and pour it into destruction. Want to remind everyone in Stone Court why they’ve feared me for sevencenturies, why no one has challenged me and lived, why the very mountain bends to my will.
But killing Greymun won’t bring her back. Won’t undo what I’ve done. Won’t make her look at me with anything other than hatred. Won’t prove anything except that I’m exactly the monster she accused me of being.
I drop him and step back, watching him crumple against the wall, gasping and clutching his bruised throat.
“My omega’s movements are not subject to court gossip,” I say, and my voice is almost calm again. Almost. “Her bond with me is not subject to your speculation. She is mine—completely, irrevocably mine—and where she chooses to spend her time is no concern of yours.”
I lean down, close enough to smell his terror, close enough to see the pulse hammering in his neck.
“And if I hear that you’ve been spreading rumors about the strength of my claim—if I hear that you’ve been questioning my bond to anyone, in any context, for any reason—I’ll remember this moment. And I won’t stop at your throat. I’ll take your tongue first. Then your hands. Then I’ll let you live long enough to watch me do the same to everyone in your household.”
He scrambles away on hands and knees, and I watch him go without satisfaction.
The truth is, I don’t know if she’s coming back. I don’t know anything except that I’ve spent seven centuries building power and position, and none of it matters without her.
The thought catches me off guard.Matters. When did she start mattering? When did this become something more than prophecy and possession?
I push the question away. Alphas don’t think aboutmattering. Alphas claim, possess, keep. Whatever this feeling is—this hollow ache in my chest, this constant reaching for a bond that’s stretched too thin, this desperate need to know she’s alive and breathing even if she hates me—it’s not love. It can’t be love. Love is a human weakness, a mortal frailty, a soft thing that belongs to creatures who die after a handful of decades.
I’ve lived seven centuries without it. I don’t need it now.
But I’ve never felt like this before. Never felt like something vital has been carved out of me. Never felt like I might not survive the loss of someone I was supposed to own.
Possession doesn’t feel like this. Possession is clean, simple—you have something or you don’t. This is messier. This isworse. This is lying awake at night reaching for a warmth that isn’t there, and feeling the echo of her nightmares through a bond that won’t let me forget she’s suffering.
The fourth night, I feel her dreams.
She’s dreaming of her parents. I can sense the shape of it through the bond—the forge, her childhood home, something painful and unresolved bubbling up from depths she’s kept buried for years. Old grief, old wounds, old silences that left scars I never noticed.
